The Man On The Moon

The moon is at the top of the sky and falling…

There’s a pebble in my shoe.
The long distance flight of a pelican
makes me long for home.
There’s a rumble in my heart.
The soft swaying note of a violin
makes me write this poem.

In faraway eyes I stared and realized
it was nothing but a carnival mirror.
The image became clearer when I stepped
forward and took my beating from the Lord…

Hallelujah. Make me bleed like a maple tree.
Hallelujah. Your bending body sets me free.

In this town, there is no dirt on the ground.
In this place, there is plastic on all the faces.
In this body, there is a 24/7 costume party.
In this brain, there is no sweet refrain.

I talk in withering prose about my life
Lend an ear to my diatribe
And I promise to wrap you warmly up inside
These faulty arms of mine…

When I was 13 I was afraid of crossing the street.
When I was 23 I was afraid of losing the beat.
Now that I’m 33 I’m deathly afraid of me.

Neurology is just an excuse. Take your therapists and
psychologists and make them dance. Make them holler
at the moon so that we can analyze them. Make the
economists pay for dinner while we make-out over the phone.
My voice goes hoarse when I keep silent. I’m not a bad kid.
I was just raised by TV and have no respect for authority.

Lead the way… I’ll follow the touch of your monogrammed glove.
Everything in this life is claimed. Why can’t I be?

One more song. One more dance.
One more glass of beer then I’m gone.
Just a fawn of a man, I carry on without a plan.
I walk to Whole Foods and eat directly from the buffet.
They kick me out. I stand in the parking lot
and shout bible verses I just invented.
I wrote this poem on my Iphone
while being questioned by the police
“Yes, this really is my faltering gaze!!!
No, I didn’t steal this broken prose!”

The moon is at eye-level now but still 384401 miles away.

If all my skin sloughs off and my ribs and lungs
and kidneys were exposed would you finally understand
what is inside of me? Or would it not matter?
Would the cats and iridescent rats still scamper
upon the mention of my name… when you steal
a quarter from the wishing well, whose wish did you steal?
Would the gnats and phosphorescent bats still scatter
when you question my fame?

I am 20 feet tall and more determined than Orpheus.
Stronger than oak. More courageous than Odysseus.
Mellifluous melodies pour through me. I am solely,
completely, unreasonably the hero in my own story.

Whiskey, like expectations and confessions, is nothing
but a smokescreen. Still, one more shot and I think I’ve got
a handle on how to finish off this poem…
it goes imagery, then pain, then irony, then resolution.

A saying…
A final dusting of philosophy.
A call to arms.

Then a picture.

The werewolf in white
grabs your baby,
makes it into powder,
so we can smell pretty.

The man on the moon
swirls the oceans in our souls.
So rise up and splash all over me!!!


(in the brochure it said things would be easy by now,
everything would be figured out. I want my money back)


One thought on “The Man On The Moon

  1. the sensitive soul is afraid of their ‘me’, i think, because a part of them recognizes that ‘me’ is not only on borrowed time, but ‘me’ is not the whole real ‘me’, that ‘me’ is not the isolated being that ‘you’ thinks it is, or wants to think it is. so there is a large feeling of responsibility and debt until the ‘me’ is able to stand up and ‘be’ regardless of the fear, which is not so unusual among us, but is particularly acute when the me has a developed sense of art. ‘you’ are that ‘me’, who can own up to who he is finally and definitively. just be the brilliance that you are.

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