Lunar Rock

Quarters vomited out of the video game.
Bells rattled like anorexic chandeliers in a tornado.
You came home raging about the war,
but I couldn’t tell which side you were on.
— you’d think  it’d be obvious.

I’m looking for a lunar rock,
something strong and rare.
I’m looking for holiday lights
in a garden at dusk.

The trash trucks come in the middle of the night,
after the drunks come churning through.
I leave my poetry book alone on the curb.
To be pilfered.
In the morning I find it.
Untouched.

You squeeze the pimple and I scream.
You can’t write everything down.
It squirts everywhere.
You can’t save every memory.
We’re standing in the shower.
You can’t mail a hamburger to China.
You said it wouldn’t hurt.
You can’t download our love.

There was a baby in a basket
that floated down the river.
So they named him Moses.
He could throw a baseball
one hundred yards.
Everybody knew he’d be famous,
my mother told me
as she showed me
the marker
where the train
had hit him.

You live in a Lego house.
Well, fuck you, you live in a waffle.
You drive a Peking duck.
And you drive a paraplegic on wheels.

I’m a shadowmonkeymoonman.
The red carpet lint collector.
A yellow tulip bee sting.

There’s poison ivy growing on the castle walls.
There’s ennui in the tap water.

The letter arrived and you opened it.

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