Not-so-intrepid Moon Stalkers On The Verge Of Rising To The Occasion

We knew the moon was close 
To going full 

Circle and was more 
Than ripe to show 

Its face above 
The steep dark 

Hulks 

Of the mountains 
Fringing our hollow, 

To spill its lunatic light 
And illuminate whatever 

It was that kept hiding it- 
Self in the recesses 

Even in broad daylight— 
Who knows? If only we could 

Rise a little higher, we might 
Catch a glimpse of it too, 

One of these nights.

At Madam Starbucks, The Medium Is The Massage

I have to tell you 
Unsettling news— 
The signs left 
On the bottom 

Of the gilt-edged 
Cup you thought would 
Runneth forever over
No longer show the least 

Stirrings of life, I fear you must 
Fall to your hands and knees 
And resuscitate your old friend
Joe, you need him 

More than ever right now. 

 

Shall We Gather By The Ditch, Pilgrims

Don’t ask from on high

Where your next

Poem’s coming from,

Muddled ones, just look

To where it’s going

To let you down

Next.

Twittering Over The Moon

Guess who

Can rip off the IRS
In broad day-

Light, streak stark-
Naked with Ben

Franklin bills flying out
His puckered rear down

Constitution Avenue
Past cop a plea cop

Station after station
Before returning

To roost in
His freaked-out white-

Washed room free
As a flipping bird

To twitter—all the while
His brooding

Fledglings waiting
In the wings

To find themselves
Mooning over

Their favorite
Lunatic again.

Squatters' Blue Window Shutters

creaking derelict refrain
giving us no quarter—

angry jalousies o-
pening and clo-

sing in a bitter wind,
giving us away

again and again.