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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One response to “Lunar Rock

  1. This is chock-full of emotion and images. I came to this Rally 4 Poets entry because you title (and then the title of your blog) intrigued me. And I was not disappointed. I hope you keep up the writing. But it is also so true, and so important to honor the fact that we can’t write everything down.

    You can see my Rally entry at:
    http://elainedanforth.wordpress.com/2012/05/15/the-one-called-mother/

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