The moon does odd things to me. It shines on my face at midnight and makes me think that there is a possibility of being happy in this gritty, grisly world. The light it casts cascades down my face like New Year’s champagne when you’re all alone and I think lofty thoughts that only serve to dampen the experience of reality when you finally experience it, the truth of diminishing returns, hand over fist stealing my joy away.
The moon affects me like wine and John Berryman‘s poems.
- A penny, pity, for the runaway ass!
- A nickel for the killer’s twenty-six-mile ride!
- Ice for the root rut-smouldering inside!
- Eight hundred weeks I have not run to Mass.—
- Toss Jack a jawful of good August grass!
- ‘Soul awful,’ pray for a soul sometimes has cried!
- Wire reasons he seasons should still abide!
- Hide all your arms where he is bound to pass.—
- Who drew me first aside? her I forgive,
- Or him, as I would be forgotten by
- O be forgiven for salt bites I took.
- Who drew me off last, willy-nilly, live
- On (darling) free. If we meet, know me by
- Your own exempt (I pray) and earthly look.
We are made of chemicals and when they splash about I feel like I’m lost on the high seas, a darling, timid little Pisces, adrift in the flotsam and driftwood of flooded cities and burnt down churches. I climbed aboard a steeple and rode it out to flee the evil that washed ashore while I was trying to entertain all the shiny, skinny people.
Old No. 7 BRAND devotion. My religion is built upon confusion and ghosts that dance at the witching hour. The cable box is making a whirling noise and if I was more impassioned I’d throw it out the window. I haven’t turned on the TV in 6 days and I make TV for a living. Like a priest who doesn’t believe in God. I am just going through the motions of being an artist. My art is the craft of fucking things up!
The moon is an oddball orb. I’m walking around at night with the jasmine blooming and cats chasing shadows and I can’t stretch the truth into a presentable lie. I’m my own worst enemy. I haven’t eaten dinner but I’m drinking and thinking about the Washington Avenue Bridge and how the water felt when John went for a midnight swim and the thought of dinner makes my stomach turn Don Knotts. I’m in love with Misery because her playlist has my favorite tune. Is it so wrong to just want to walk around with you? Tell me you’ll be true to this destruction and I won’t stray from its backwards lurch. In the air the rockets spell my name. FINALITY. The moon doesn’t listen when I recite poetry.
If you could map my heart would you print a legend at the bottom?
If you could lock up my soul, where would you hide the key?
Let’s just throw our hands up and surrender to the tides. You damn moon and your affects! Let’s just be children and throw tantrums when the jukebox steals our quarters. Like Buddha, raise our hands skyward and give up on all these Earthly defects.
But Buddha never walked in these chucks!
I reach for another Tecate as the doorbell rings and the Devil enters. Hello, I say, and rise to meet my doom.
(Literature Under the Influence of Whiskey, Beer, and Lunar Spells) My apologies…