Watching the Blue Moon

There were three moons
Each followed me down the street
till i bloomed like a cereus
captured my fingertips
holding on tight,
roots in the ground that called to me
an earnest kettle

There were five moons
glowing against each other under the lip
don’t make me cry
just eat your dinner
and leave the neighbor be.
I try to understand you under your
fur and stripes,
keep me battling the Egyptians
but i only wanted you to see it–


The moon
She would not have been too
worried about your position
knowing your feline instincts would
lead to her every shadow.
But i bathed in her and expected more.
The undertones of my life reach out
with cereus roots and command
with grace
that we all sit together and eat.

There is just one moon
but the scratches were the answer
tiny little insubordination pinpricks
formed before everyone knew it was time

I may have multiplied your magnificence
but through glass, am i to blame?
we all scatter under you and wait for your light
to notice us
because we always notice you.

and honestly,
we should.

Mornings in January

Recently, waking to a world
with fog-scapes and green grass
I heard the cry of a cat–
lone, hungry and waiting.
She sat beneath thorn berries,
heard northwestern birds,
plenty to eat around them.
Everything reflects in her eyes,
chin at rest between two paws
Is there memory of warmth?

In fog-scapes,
I wear green colored glasses,
made of beach salvage bottles,
rimmed in copper wire.

Buses, planes, youth, etc.

Traveling by bus
on networks of air
we still try to trade the
collectors editions of our youth
Yours range from baseball hats to packaged toys
while I positioned dolls in a row
for show and the shoes got
together for town-hall meetings.
We’re not too far from
childhood now.
Ten going on 40
and any ringing in our ears
is directly caused by
concerts versus age.

I pretend to know strangers.
Reaching my mind into the
past full of slow connections.
Break out the xylophone
the tambourine and give me
your best melody, Linda and Stevie.
We will sail over the river
during flood months,
wish we could be as poignant as Paterson
and as unshakable as Downing Hahn.
Wandering over the grassy knoll,
shaking earthquake and dragon
I am alive and I believe
youth carves us out
scraps of clay and glue,
a little trash and a snail
or two.
Horny toad broaches,
your first album.
Carves us from fears,
near-misses and eyes clanking,
they roll around
in our skulls so restlessly.
You want to be Peter Gabriel
and I want to be Ann Martin.
We don’t know each other yet.
This poem is chock full of 80’s
but baby,
all we need is love.