My Lady the Moon


She has everything now,
up there.
And when she turns to me,
as if to say
there is no one else you could love,
her regard bores through
these hands I raise
to show I am nothing
but a receptacle of her night.
She has confiscated all of these,
my affairs,
my days used up with love.
Afflicted by a burning chest of solitude,
in the month of her fiercest song,
I sit atop the highest hill,
far above a town full of
sleeping dogs,
of waiting bells,
drunk and full of ache
with a wind-devoured bone,
I try to patch things up
with my lady the moon.


It just doesn’t work,
the sun, the streets,
scented and alive
with human mouths,
and old women
burdened with cardigans
and shopping bags full of
old rainstorms.

None of it’s working properly.
But I know that I am
the screw that came loose,
the crate of fruit that
fell from the cart and
left a stain in the street.

You see, I just can’t
go straight like the others anymore,
straight lines, straight shots,
straight loves,
because a bitter family has
entered my soul
and has pitched their tent.
They are roasting marshmallows
over my tormented and charred lung.

There are people that
live in houses happily,
and get in cars happily,
and stroll through
straight-jacket parks
with pleasant, asinine music
on their lips.

They feed cats and kiss their wives
the way they would raise a glass
of moderately priced wine to their lips,
and they converse together
with cordial eyebrows.
It is all just too strange,
like filling in potholes,
or painting over obscene words
on bathroom walls.

The broken ones never go out.
I never see the ones who lost,
the left-out, the wayward, the confused.
They’re never found
in public gardens with
their smiling, clipped roses.
The ones who tripped on
the pavement of life,
with a stubbed toe and
an enraged beard,

the jilted, the stood-up,
the ones who failed at every thing,
because their was hurt,
and unspeakable loves
that went wrong, so awfully wrong,
and skies of squeezed orange juice,
and dawns that killed
all their ambitions.
And because of all this,
not despite it,
they wear their breakdown like
a masterpiece.

It doesn’t work,
it’s all stopped ticking over.
But sometimes, I need to fail.

Cross Over

It was cold,
and the wind was piled high
with bad memories,
and walking was hard,
as if the street was a wound in my feet.
And to forget,
I crossed over
to the other side of the road,
where a cat flashed
like a fallen lamp,
and the swift clouds
grazed the sky until I was raw,
and I couldn’t remember dates or years.
I walked on a street
where nobody knew me,
and not even the night
held a candle,
and the lamp posts
no longer recalled your name,
and the stars were like the clarity
of a life wiped clean.