I believe in the moon and its
cradle sky. Gravid master:
big and effulgent
and white, winking,
driving all the dogs crazy.

It used to be this way:
when no one howled and they all tucked their tailbones
between their skin;
I spent several nights pouring Everclear into Slurpee cups
and lapping at the world’s shoelaces.
Sitting on the edge of the bay on a borrowed blanket,
I vomited up some sort of philosophy
about the closing of the day; the way it moved
like an itinerant wave that followed me
—and only me—
everywhere I went.
It grabbed me each sunset like
the scythe of Death.
Come here, girl!
it hollered and threw me to the floor.
It took the pieces of breath I had been saving
for a rainy day when I would finally make a declaration.
I’m too dizzy.
Wherever I had been standing, I was now
My mouth was moist but most everything else
was desiccating.
I retold this story often to whomever and
always myself. The way those suffering from psychosis
tell three thirds of themselves to take it easy
and the other half is grabbing the window and
throwing it up and jumping out.
(How many parts is that?)
There was a glance of sadness or kindness or something else
and then a sip.
Then my overeager lover, anxious,
attempted to go down on me
sixteen different times to prove his might to absent men.
I wanted to gulp the last of my rainbow cist
and move on
but I let him make me moan a couple out before I
rushed into the ocean, arms spread,
just begging to be taken to the place that sharks dine.
I wanted to be eaten with force.
I wanted to be taken alive.

There were so many of us. All these guys and
me, swimming in my subdued psychosis..
All these sick people and me and no
God between us.
We found summers that never ended and
that seemed better than heaven
but we age and we wonder:
whose side are we on?
Is this the darkness following me, or am
I the creator of hell?
You wanted to kill something inside of yourself and
you kept naming it my ex.
Wait until the stars line your path and you’ll see:
it’s you.
You’re the only face glowing back.
Like a haunted conch shell sitting on some
little girl’s dresser next to the
unremitting twirl of a dancer:
it’s elegiac twist, pointed shoes,
sunken chest, pencil thin lips,
little volts that break your coral-colored skeleton in half.
She just wants a pretty paperweight
and you just want your slimy, little body back.
I made you my consecrated beast
just learning how to yelp.
You are breaking your back to find your way back
to me, breaking your hips and your jaunt
to rush up a stake and
plant yourself on it.
You’re out of ideas and droplets of blood
and the dirt’s giving birth to a more maleficent son.
I’m out tonight, winking like a lunatic,
and giving birth to breathing eggs.
I’m casing and pacing the place,
listening for the long whimpers of lost wolves.
Come here, boy!
I’m much brighter tonight than I’ve been in a long time.
I shine like the moon

here I come
to stand still
to finally find you.

“the moon”


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