From my seat on the moon

Lets try this again,

             I can see Mars from here,

I can feel the wind from the chariots.

Feel the wild  manes of the horses and the lions.

I can see Mars, now better then ever,

It is not because of the clouds, though.

                     The clouds do not care what is visible, and what is not.

They will bring rain, and thunder and lighting, and suitcases to big to store overhead.

I can see Mars from my seat on the moon,

From my seat on the plane,

                                                  Swimming in oceans here,

and in oceans there.

I have to shield my eyes from the headlights,

“They are approaching too quickly ”

                        I think to myself…

 Swinging in a hammock here,

and swinging in a hammock there.

The sparkling stars cant shield their own eyes,

they cant wipe away the chemicals,

 or  the venom,

they cant hide from Nostradamus,

or  the telescopes

or the slowly creeping spiders,

                             and their silk…

The whole world is wrapped in silk,



                         Summer is here,

so is the rain

so is the rain,

I can still see Mars from my backyard,

                                                                     the fireflies try and tell me;

try to reason with me and lie to me,

                   “look at me”

“look at us”

“we are the stars”

They might be the stars-

but not tonight

They might be the snakes-

but not tonight.

Tonight we turn blue,

                            like the moon,

like the bubbling water

gurgling fourth from the mouth of a lonely fountain.

Overflowing into the streets, and into the buildings,

now the water is black with ink,

   Black from all the different forms,

and Octopi who used all eight

arms to escape,

                     to climb the walls to join me,

and I am no longer turning blue.

                                                     and everyone is talking about it,

Talking about sleep and about the water turning black,

and about the long lines on the way to the stadium…

I cant see Mars anymore,

I think the chariots finished the race and they are gone now,

I fear they finished the race, and I will not see them again.

and I am  turning blue once again,

blue like the oceans,

the oceans here and the oceans there,

               The oceans in which I swim.

The oceans in which I bathe.

The oceans in which I become.

The world is blue too,

at least from my seat on the moon,

                                      at least that’s what the fireflies tell me.



I prefer

I prefer the company of microwaves

                 I prefer the canopy to be made  entirely of dragons,

and sound effects,

Computers beeping and then  crashing, and hands high-fiving-

Those sounds keep the world awake,

They keep me awake,

             Those sounds light the sanctum,

fiercely poetic,

hidden in a trance,

hidden amongst the trees.

                      I prefer to not forget the black and white cat,

and her demeanor,

                                                                                                      her sleeplessness,

The willingness to watch the same movie, over and over again,

to type the same words over and over again,

to type the same words over and over again,

like a curse.

like a curse.

like a curse.

like a curse,

like a curse.

I prefer to hit homeruns,

I prefer to go twelve rounds.

Look at the compass,

Guidance can be found along the seafloor,

or at third base,

or in a vending machine, when you have to stick your hand up to reach a bag of chips on the very first row,

is that fair?

Try reaching the top shelf instead.

I prefer to swim in quicksand,

To float in mercury,

                 I prefer to be the  lungs,

Because no one knows what’s  at the bottom.

Because I  will still need to breathe,

even in the operating-room,

even in the waiting-room

even inside the aquarium,

I prefer the aquarium…

I prefer the emporium…

                            Find your way to the forest, and

walk slowly through the  forest,

peering down at unknown tracks in the snow.

in that forest,

be calm,

because those are not bear tracks.

Those tracks lead up to the door of a cabin,

and then what?

Eat what little bread you have left, and pull the blanket up to your eyes,

and go inside,

light your fire

light my fire

So it can be seen for miles!

So we can warn the others!

  Engage with the insidious,

Engage with what is  inside,

                 keep the blanket over your eyes,

and your sword at your side,

and your mind, aloof, my friend.

Tune out all that static, and wait for the real  music to start-

your feet will soon be cold,

but you’ll forget the cold in the presence of demons.

Be cold in the presence  of demons.

Leave the cabin, and make your own trail to the city-

Leave some breadcrumbs, and some candy if you don’t mind.

Leave them for me.

So that I can know so many things.

                       Her sleeplessness knows no bounds,

her sleeplessness sinks ships and sings along with  the sirens,

with the mermaids,

with the barking dogs,

Bound not by tethers, or chains,

Captive, but not by man;

but by journey, and by  course,

                                                  of course…

Alone on an island,

warm, on that same  island,

Watching the spreading seas, from that island.

                                                                        Smiling, on that  same damn island.

Lick your lips that taste of vanilla,  and stretch out your arms;

                                                                                give   your alms and penance,

drive the steak through your  my heart,

my veins,

I prefer to relinquish the   magic,

let it slip through my hands like dripping ooze,

like a melting candle.

like a rushing river,

                                                                                           and I’ll still be smiling,

When it all falls through the cracks,

On  that island.






Those are the onions

Never erase,

                                                       only forget or produce.

               Procure,  or embalm like the Egyptians do did.

Those are the options.

Those are the onions.

Topple skyscrapers and walk through fire like the Egyptians do did.

            Hold the crystal ball in your hand, and it’s still only a bookmark,

Hold the crystal ball in your hand and your still in that same gift shop.

Hold the crystal ball in yours hands and your hands still shake.

                                           Leave the glass of water on the nightstand,

Let it cool down and warm back up,

Let it become your pet,

until you get a real one.

                and put away the bayonets!

and the first hieroglyphics will be misinterpreted even still,

and no one will  ever mistake the back of a cereal box for a bible.

keep still, the ghosts wont be able to see you if you are one of them,

                     keep still, your feet may not get quite as wet.

a new empire,

a new  movie star.

A new passageway,

A new crawlspace,

some sweet honey from a newly discovered beehive.

And your fingers will stick together.

Under those stairs,

                               It may even begin to smell,

for better or for worse,

                                          It will probably smell of paint

                                It will probably smell of spiderwebs

On the silver set of the gameshow,

               forget all the memories you beat out of it,

forget all the vowels that  you guessed,

and forget that host that speaks into a microphone.

and forget all those fluorescent  lights,

They are born out of the sun ;

                                                      The host and lights, and the soul too.

They will not get their own story.

They can take the stairs.

Forget all the different dimensions you visited,

           and forget all the tables you bussed,

Forget the cherries on top.

only Sundays matter,

only sundaes matter.

That glass of water is still on the nightstand, by the way.

Did you forget about that too,  you barbarian?

Is that even  the same glass?

Build your new castle,

Lay that mortar and ready the catapults.

I’ll tell everyone.

Put that glue away,

Put that ship back in it’s bottle-

I’ll tell everyone that will listen.

put away those bayonets!

               You can build those models another time,

 another perfect time,

                  because it starts with the bones and grows outward from there,

Like a dying star,



and then



                         There will be spaceships.

Those are the onions.




They came as nomads

They came as nomads,

and they left in swimming pools,

left in coffins,

            standing on the roof of their cars,

                             standing on mountaintops,

                                                           Only hours earlier they were

                                                      staring up at  the trees,

                                                              taller then ever now.

staring up at the trees,

getting lost between the branches.

They stared up at the slopes, covered in snow,

      mouths wide open,

                                                            expelling hot air and a gentle hum,

And they wondered where their snowshoes were?

and they wondered,

                          Where did the bobsleds go?

These slopes were white with snow,

and the rabbits and the foxes were white, too.

and the ash from the volcano was white, too.

and I can still hear that hum,

and feel that collective breath.

I know where the snowshoes are.

I know where the bobsleds are.

I know where the bodies are buried.

     There was no getaway driver,

but there was a car chase,


the vault was empty now.

there were tire tracks now.

I do not know what they were chasing though.

I do not know what they were looking for…

I stared up at those same trees, and tried to make the most  of it,

but the trees became boring,

(the mountains told me that)

and they would continue to grow even if I wasn’t staring at them,

(the mountains told me that)

                     up and through me and the nomads,

until we were all hanging upside down,

like sleeping bats,

                                                  or like sweet fruit, ready to fall.

and we were up there together,

above the attic

and the baseball fields

and the  spinning windmills,

and above the fireworks.

And we were up there, crying together,

Myself  and the nomads,

staring at the constellations,

                                                                                and the fireworks below us,

we stared  into mirrors, and we believed together.

we turned gold, together.



When I close my eyes I can see the lightning

Waves crashing  on jagged rocks,

attempting to reach the warmth of the lighthouse,

only reaching the base,

only able to grasp at the ankles.

The waves want to  climb that spiral staircase to infinity,

The waves want to climb all  the way to the top,

so they can dry off, and not be waves anymore.

                          the waves, exchanging gravity for buoyancy,

and the waves keep the change, too.

When I close my eyes I can  see the  lightning.

A candle lights not only the  entire room,

but the hallway, too.

The hallway, too.

The door of  the linen closet is shut still,

but it is not locked.

When I close my eyes I can see the  lightning.

An unmarked grave,  as opposed to

                      flowers being  neatly left at the door of the mausoleum.

But it is not locked.

Still no one ever knocks, though.

No one wants to see the skeletons  and the pharaoh’s,

                                               no one wants to breathe their air,

                                                           or read their newspapers,

                                                               and no one wants to shake their brittle hands,

 and no one wants their curses,

                                                                                                   or their recipes either.

When I close my eyes I can see the lightning.

An empty park bench,

as opposed to a crowded one,

there is still an empty spot in the grass, you know?

can I have my sheet music back now?

because the music has stopped entirely.

When I close my eyes I  can see the  lightning.

The road can be covered  in fog,

                but fog cannot be covered a road.

When I close my eyes I can see the lightning.

                                                 The sound of crickets reverberates at night,

especially when they can never be found,

and  weightless conundrums come at you like slow hands,

                              and you

sleep during commercials,

(to drown out both  the crickets and  the conundrums)

                                                                                               and you sleep during the best part,

                                   following winding rivers with my eyes  as they descend into puddles,

              my eyes, too descend into puddles,

My eyes…my eyes.

drooling on a pillow that is not for sleep.

drooling on a pillow that is not for sleep.

When I close my eyes I can see the lightning.

Look at those grand canyons!

Look out for those tour guides!

                                                          Watch out, the snakes are awake  now!

When I close my eyes I can see the lightning.

A slice of ham will always be more salty than any slice of turkey,

no matter who the butcher is,

no matter what the butcher is,

and some  staircases ascend further than they should,

and some fires burn brighter then they should,

and some firemen put out those same fires over and over again,

and some people light those same fires over and over again,

                    and some cats chase the same

                                           dreams over and over  again,

some cats will always chase the same dreams,

                                          and their  tails,

over and over again.

 and some cats…

I  can  feel the lightning when I close my eyes.









A yellow ghost if there ever was one

At least some mustard was left behind,

Scrawled on a napkin, an ode to it’s forefathers and it’s predecessors,

those who came before and the ketchup that would inevitably come after,

                              the bloodshed that will inevitably come after.

surviving surging waters,

riptides and tidal waves,

when the levees broke,

and the valleys swelled,,,,,,,,

tiptoeing around the bedrock and the limestone,

                                                                                      Cruising in limousines instead,

Swimming with the mermaids, and then declining their dinner invitation.

the pointed silverware,

the painted silverware,

the only treasure here,

That stick up like blades of  newly sown grass, or like newly minted  tombstones,

or swords thrust into  the earth.

the bloodshed that will inevitably come after.

A fistful of fresh clay, falls in between careful fingers.

A yellow ghost if there ever was one,

spinning yellow webs in the yellow corner of the yellow room,

A yellow talisman,

blessed by yellow empires,

forged in yellow fire,

forged in yellow fire,

Practicing calisthenics, like  the wildflowers that blow with passing cars,

moving side to side  shortly after knee surgery,

A hula dancer, glued to a dashboard, along with a prayer,

                                   …and a doctors note

glowing like a firefly,

retracting like a piston,

crisping like a piece of toast left too long.

looking well past today, with the help of a spyglass,

The crystal ball was used to make a chandelier, so we could see.

looking directly into the labyrinth, no minotaur in sight,

and a clock steadily ticking…


The screams at the end

The screams at the end are my favorite part,

A park bench in the wintertime,

Complete with the appropriate music and jingling bells,

A flock of pigeons

waiting to become                                                    friendly,

waiting to become                                                           fed,

welcome to the fold.

The branches of a nearby tree slowly bending to the weight of the snow,

not under the weight of birds,

reaching towards the ground,

instead of towards the  sun,

desperately trying to pick up scraps leftover from thanksgiving,

or fallen apples or baseballs or whatever is within striking distance,

Trying to make a Christmas dinner out of nothing but

sleeping vampires and silver bullets,

with no cider to keep us warm.

with no chairs to keep us upright.

                         with no place for our swinging hands.

Our ghostly hands.

Our heavenly hands.

Eventually all the snow will  fall, on top of more snow,

and that snow will be

colder now that it is further from the hot air from above,

Further from all  the weather balloons

and the exploding artillery shells,

and the  stranded astronauts beyond even them

and everything else beyond that.

Beyond them.

colder now that it is further from the truth,

better now that is with more snow,

snow more like itself.

                                                              smoke in another life.

In a wisp, it is gone.

Passing through cracks in a window,

                                                             and passing through already vacant towns,

Kicking in the doors to saloons where

No pianos are playing.

No pianos are playing.

There is no one dancing.

This can all be seen from the balcony.

                                      Arms crossed, and barely breathing,

but man,

what a smile.

And those screams,  at the end,

Those screams, too.