I Give Madeleine And Jorge Cues For Gazing At The Moon
Picture the moon as an oligarchy going off a cliff,
or why someone would rob you in the lobby of a hotel.
(The moon: what you can tell your anesthesiologist
but not your priest.)
Look at the moon like it’s your dog’s last days on earth.
(The moon: a speech given by a crow at the death of a monkey,
the crow dipping its beak into things that are now too late.)
Sometimes you’ve got an hour in the bank.
You spend that hour foolishly, feeling euphoric.
And then you have to go up into a eucalyptus tree
and unbangle the moon.
Is spring in control of the flowers of industrialism?
Is August simply the separation of July from September?
Can winter stem depressions that flow from vast reservoirs of laissez-faire?
Go stare at the moon.
Last night I threw a party at some friends and hit them
in a museum. They went off, one after the other, like echoes.
Then war jets from the south filled the skies
and in the north movies vanished from around their heroes.
And now the moon and I protect both the wealthy
and the sane;
me hovering over the world like a hornet
hovering over all the world’s sweet grasses;
the moon blossoming and blossoming
until everything’s fair.
Look at both of us in that way.
behold the Angel of Democracy
*
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