Saturday, May 10, 2014

2. The Envious Moon

I heard the moon tonight
and she seemed sad.  Zephyr voice
cut into the dark like a first
cut into grapefruit.  There was
copious blood and pain.
I thought of motorcycles
and trains, the hour of departure,
Odysseus, the urgent drop of oars
into Aegean sea.  My only journey
was to the corner store — more
cigarettes, a magazine. They
don’t sell poetry,  they sell
other genres of dreams —
copulin-drenched, testosterone-fed —
that frenetic moment when
the neocortex chooses to fail.  

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