White After Dark

trees cut white into pages
cut the light into radio waves
roll the fog to make diplomas

hours roll upon knuckles
sky raises its moon like a nightstick
black and blue and white

time is sanctuary cut time open
the cross cut curls like a finger
licked to lift the pages

Man, O Man

A robot wears a t-shirt:

[ I put the “man” in manufacturing ]

the living, teaming wreckage
of a homeless shanty—the keepers, undulating
like a carpet of snakes in the background

self-driven automobiles racing
above all, on the overpass, our roof
throats low the ambient hum of
the existers lullaby

the tool-master’s dilemma is
a careless construct between
what were thought to be bookends
birth before, and death after

—as a cotton seed sprouts, unconvincingly
on the surface of a rolling doughnut

—as a cotton seed sprouts, unconvincingly
on the surface of the moooon

-:-

(with nods to the venerable Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five)

Hackberry Moon

The untenable bloat
of a star-fed night
the belt of blackened sky
finds the end of its catches
and drawers, breaches the opened

Window of evening
baring to the plebeian fields
a pimpled moon—abruptly
   speeds away toward the dawn
rattling what remains

Of leaden, time-bound constellations
in a hooting, waxing mood
pranking the polished mirror
where the cosmos appear—

Did you see that, dear?

Moon

I bark at the bathroom mirror
dark with its memories
of unshaven face.

I shine, like the moon
with a light from elsewhere.

Full of myself, like the moon
our appearances in the world
dictated by cyclic spin
or worse, calendars.

I fade, like the moon
dimmed by fleeting clouds.

My madness perks up its ears
the jitters, looking for skin
to crawl, come moonrise.

That Fucking Moon

refracted in the moondust
saucer round, the light
it comes our way, obey
her, cyclic lunatic
the hounds and wolves
have paced all day
come out, come out
come out and play
but soft what light the
tidepull on your hunger
and your wolven groin
she’s close enough to fuck
with tides and passions
nerves and hormones, luck
to man and beast alike on
land or sea or airborne tern
that fucking moon
we never learn

In honor of this evening’s full moon. Get
out there and sing to her then, shall we?
PgR 10/15/2016

Solar

I can believe what I see
if I can believe that I’m seeing it,
but the sun is too much
the work-a-day schmo to worship.

I climb over that ridge
in the morning too, and
nobody thinks anything of it.

True, sometimes I’m late.


Image is from a pinhole eclipse viewer that I am still working on, even though the path of totality will not pass directly over this errant human head of mine. It will pass well to the north of me, and godspeed to these heavenly bodies, especially the moon, who will single-handedly blot out the sun and then quietly stand aside as everyone whispers, “oh, solar eclipse!”