POEM

The man-in-the-moon has been worn out

with trying to sleep with one eye. The sun,

giving him a hot foot, the way that the sweet

milk of romance will often curdle, or the way

that a groom or bride gets cold feet before

the wedding day—the use of last year’s brains,

deflaming, fleeing, & say, the bride, just standing

there in expectation like a stuffed owl,

looking as if she had fallen into a barrel of flour.

One must be careful to green-light romance

or else you may end up with a pocketful of rocks.

There are people that would rather be put to death

than put to shame, but at least they are controlling

their own tempos. On the contrary, there are

those that look to always be holding the canteen

in the blistering desert, that keep their “rank”

in a shrine, that build around their values.

Then there are those that will say, “Welcome to

my neighborhood” but are unable to remember

their house number. Yet still, through it all,

someone is thinking, “Instinct is usually always right,”

& the sun still shines as brightly as ever

& the moon’s illumination still ripens the night,

& most importantly, the moon still has her man.

CUT-OUT

Seeing an old girlfriend’s

new boyfriend is like looking

at a shadowy cut-out of myself

in a maze of similar avenues
& I think, “Do they compare the good
with the bad? the bad with the good?”

Time steers from our sides, is often

at a standstill, yet moves onward

the way that Good News

never comes too late; the way one

may look past you as if you were

not there, arousing a peculiar passion.

I see them together in a beautiful park

on an occasional shaky video—

sudden laughs; their eyes:

absent, grave & empty?

He, tugging at her negligee,

the reflections of the camera

in both of their sunglasses,

mimicking my “four eyes.” It is as if

cameras have been rigged to capture

all answers, to expel all mysteries,

like a house with secrets, walls with ears

& search-lights.

Many of these boyfriends appear

as if their wishes have been granted—

the girlfriend, on the contrary,

surrounded by a grayish-grim imbroglio?

What a treasure to have as pure a

conscience as a babe’s—my curiosities

& observations, like great thundering boots,

& when I see one wearing an iron key

on a ribbon around one’s neck, I think,

“That may be trouble,” like a false rumor,

for it is from Experience that I have

often caught that big bright eye

peeping through the keyhole, & I

cannot help but to wonder if there

are always saucy rogues

suspended around every relationship,

as if struck by frost, like a meaning

that never intended to mean anything.