(from the moon series)
I thought I saw the arrivals were
Des Moines, IA and Peoria, Il.
Which woulld be strange considering
the title 'Llegadas'. But that's just
the nature of the beast, the fixture
of the heavens, the mixture of (of)
meta ingredients, the bellow of the giant
whale of time sick of its job.
I thought I saw the arrivals but I saw
departures and we all know where they go
and we all go there, someday, without warning,
with plenty of billboard announcements
in who knows how many languages,
without notice, with observation and slow wit.
I thought, who thought, who thinks, I
think, why think. It's just a waste
of soul. It's just a rabid creature. It's just,
what's just, no just, you're just, those scales
of the fish, of the bathroom floors.
Here we go again, here we find ourselves
forming and spewing, forming and spewing.
Just forget about it. Forget about what?
It doesn't matter. What doesn't matter? Anymore.
Jun 9, 2010
Moon over Ontigola
(from the moon series)
at the bottom of the pool, whispering
to the sweat pores, whispering to the skin.
Why does the moon always whisper?
In the undercurrent of the tide,
in the undercurrent of the blood,
sunk and dreamt and bent
into the waves,
in the distortion and the reflection,
wisps and tendrils of lost breath, escaped.
at the bottom of the pool, whispering
to the sweat pores, whispering to the skin.
Why does the moon always whisper?
In the undercurrent of the tide,
in the undercurrent of the blood,
sunk and dreamt and bent
into the waves,
in the distortion and the reflection,
wisps and tendrils of lost breath, escaped.
Moon in her Arms
(from the moon seires)
A baby moon in a bundle walked down the street
in the winter wrapped in maroon blankets
in the purple of the night when people pass
and wonder if she has a home and cafes
look so cozy inside.
That little moon in her arms.
What would she do if it died? Probably not worry
so much. So you ask for alms. So she eats
from the garbage. So she pours love out
from her breasts and she gets spit on by pigs.
While all the while that little moon wanes
and wilts and weeps, an unknown treasure waltzed
into dreamland amongst the Russian tongue;
under bitter flakes fallen from gray sky
in the motherland with her back slowly turned.
A baby moon in a bundle walked down the street
in the winter wrapped in maroon blankets
in the purple of the night when people pass
and wonder if she has a home and cafes
look so cozy inside.
That little moon in her arms.
What would she do if it died? Probably not worry
so much. So you ask for alms. So she eats
from the garbage. So she pours love out
from her breasts and she gets spit on by pigs.
While all the while that little moon wanes
and wilts and weeps, an unknown treasure waltzed
into dreamland amongst the Russian tongue;
under bitter flakes fallen from gray sky
in the motherland with her back slowly turned.
Moon Over Revolution
(from the moon series)
holds belly for the butterflies. Dreams in the clouds
and eats in the gutters. Wishes and wants and prepares
and dies in solace without exposition. Watches
the squares and the plazas and waits for the next
burning person. Watches the news and reads
twentieth century continental philosophy and jeers
at wilted photographs of Che screen printed and hung
on brick walls of banks in back alleyways. Rolls eyes
at the pigs, shakes moonlight to the bottoms
of the chasm in the cafe's at night, in the bosom
of the beast, in the bold egos of history. This is where
the moon rises, slow, full of ambition, drenched
in star spangled sacrament, humbled by grand figures
in the night. Twists and struggles to break plaster
and chains. Vaults the heavens and emerges, wonderfully
ambivalent and fixed to the pubescent air of revolution.
holds belly for the butterflies. Dreams in the clouds
and eats in the gutters. Wishes and wants and prepares
and dies in solace without exposition. Watches
the squares and the plazas and waits for the next
burning person. Watches the news and reads
twentieth century continental philosophy and jeers
at wilted photographs of Che screen printed and hung
on brick walls of banks in back alleyways. Rolls eyes
at the pigs, shakes moonlight to the bottoms
of the chasm in the cafe's at night, in the bosom
of the beast, in the bold egos of history. This is where
the moon rises, slow, full of ambition, drenched
in star spangled sacrament, humbled by grand figures
in the night. Twists and struggles to break plaster
and chains. Vaults the heavens and emerges, wonderfully
ambivalent and fixed to the pubescent air of revolution.
Moon Hidden in the Cliffs
(from the moon series)
We walk up above and look down
in between the cliffs and see the pale light
pouring out heavily. We wonder
if something has fallen; if some minor star
has been cratered and walled
and we think,
oh how novel and we walk to the edge
and look down at the round moon
still aglow and we think,
oh it's just the moon, sunk. And we live
our lives as if we've never seen a ghost.
And we practice religion of science and forget
gaps of logic. We say,
oh it's so easy to write abstraction
but to see a moon exhumed is another story.
We walk up above and look down
in between the cliffs and see the pale light
pouring out heavily. We wonder
if something has fallen; if some minor star
has been cratered and walled
and we think,
oh how novel and we walk to the edge
and look down at the round moon
still aglow and we think,
oh it's just the moon, sunk. And we live
our lives as if we've never seen a ghost.
And we practice religion of science and forget
gaps of logic. We say,
oh it's so easy to write abstraction
but to see a moon exhumed is another story.
Reflection Before Prediction
We're only an hour in and already there's thunder clouds
up ahead.
Thick, black, sprawled. I can't believe what I forget. But
somehow
I still manage. You're leaving is killing me. And this
isn't gonna be
no light rain. It's a rain that turns five hours into ten.
It's a rain
that turns the day into night too early. I know you're going
to worry
about me and think I'm lost but I'm here. It's been too many
days already
and it has only been fifteen. This life is a rack of lonesome
and just
when you think it's over you find another heart to drive you
places
you never been. Although really this is dramatic. I'll be there
before one thirty.
up ahead.
Thick, black, sprawled. I can't believe what I forget. But
somehow
I still manage. You're leaving is killing me. And this
isn't gonna be
no light rain. It's a rain that turns five hours into ten.
It's a rain
that turns the day into night too early. I know you're going
to worry
about me and think I'm lost but I'm here. It's been too many
days already
and it has only been fifteen. This life is a rack of lonesome
and just
when you think it's over you find another heart to drive you
places
you never been. Although really this is dramatic. I'll be there
before one thirty.
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