I don't like what the moon is supposed to do. Confuse me, ovulate me, spoon-feed me longing. A kind of ancient date-rape drug. So I'll howl at you, moon, I'm angry. I'll take back the night. Using me to swoon at your questionable light, you had me chasing you, the world's worst lover, over and over hoping for a mirror, a whisper, insight. But you disappear for nights on end with all my erotic mysteries and my entire unconscious mind. How long do I try to get water from a stone? It's like having a bad boyfriend in a good band. Better off alone. I'm going to write hard and fast into you moon, face-fucking. Something you wouldn't understand. You with no swampy sexual promise but what we glue onto you. That's not real. You have no begging cunt. No panties ripped off and the crotch sucked. No lacerating spasms sending electrical sparks through the toes. Stars have those. What do you have? You're a tool, moon. Now, noon. There's a hero. The obvious sun, no bulls hit, the enemy of poets and lovers, sleepers and creatures. But my lovers have never been able to read my mind. I've had to learn to be direct. It's hard to learn that, hard to do. The sun is worth ten of you. You don't hold a candle to that complexity, that solid craze. Like an animal carcass on the road at night, picked at by crows, haunting walkers and drivers. Your face regularly sliced up by the moving frames of car windows. Your light is drawn, quartered, your dreams are stolen. You change shape and turn away, letting night solve all night's problems alone.
Alarmed, today is a new dawn,
and that affair recurs daily like clockwork,
undone at dusk, when a new restaurant
emerges in the malnourished night.
We said it would be this way, once this became
the way it was. So in a way we were
waiting for it. I still haven’t eaten, says the cook
in the kitchen. A compliant complaint.
I never eat, says the slender diner. It’s slander,
and she’s scared, like a bully pushing
lettuce around. The cook can’t look, blind with hunger
and anger. I told a waiter to wait
for me and I haven’t seen him since. O it has been forty
minutes it has been forty years.
Late is a synonym for dead which is a euphemism
for ever. Ever is a double-edged word,
at once itself and its own opposite: always
and always some other time.
In the category of cleave, then. To cut and to cling to,
That C won’t let leave alone. Even so, forever’s
now’s never, and remember is just
the future occluded or dreaming. The day has come:
a dusty gust of disgusting August,
functioning as a people-mover. Maybe we’re going
nowhere, but wherever I go
I see us everywhere. On occasions of fancyness,
or out to eat. As if people, stark, now-ish
people themselves were the forever of nothing,
the everything of nobody,
the very same self of us all, after all, at long
last the first.