"We were both looking at the same moon, I think," she replied. I'd overheard her in passing On the Upper West Side. Where players and poets, Tune cellos and turn words round, Where sidewalk cracks snag you, And dogs, well, enough said. Maybe that's it. There are twin moons! Shining down upon us their celestial lights. Might account for… UFOs, Conspiracy theories, And political unreason. Moreover, might explain… The Color Wheel, Hues of hierarchy forever depicting, the Favored and shading the Forsaken. Twin Moons! Silly idea, really. Of course, merging two moons, That's a job for the fair Selene, Backing up the chariot, To seamlessly unite the pair. But, I'm not sure she's prepared, Learned the shift pattern, Uses the rearview mirror, Turns her head around, Or is interested much, In, reversing her course.
I am certain Covid broke us. Slid right in and commandeered The anterior insular cortex, Rendering it feckless. The insidious vapors of virus, Crept through grey pattern, like fissures in Britain's fine china, weakening vessels. It challenged stoic cake-baking, cheek-pinching Grandmothers now weary, brittle like breath, Mugged and stole delinquent affection. Their confections and convictions Dried up, gone to seed. Their ovens long gone cold Like their parting, parched mouths. It rankled outliers rowdy with drink, now shooting before sighting, Shooting mouths, Shooting hearts, shooting voices. Explosive, shrapnel-laden fury envelops, The hand that shoves the traveler, The hand that slaps the lover. The hand that pulls the trigger. What do we lack, for nothing? Our coffers depleted, Our mouth's drier still Without the stale Body of Christ. Our god. Our selves. Our salvation.
If history could teach us anything,
would anyone listen?
it would not, could not possibly,
squelch that itchy, curious impulsivity
To loosen a rusted, crusty lid
releasing Sorrow, Sickness, and War.
assured, the Gifts await
a clever mind’s temptation
As tin soldiers eat cake
and foul-mouthed warriors
breathe and bellow life
into deadened coals
Could History un-travel the paths
leading hordes to Fate’s end?
with promises of Beauty and
They couldn’t hear either
Words, pale and weak, floating,
hovering like gnats around reddened ears,
clotted with grey, overgrown hair,
Righteous, ripe in Ignorance
Would History unravel, uncoil,
unspoil vines wound about
berries sweetly fragrant
alive for this moment?
What cynic believes a peek
into the clairvoyant vortex wouldn’t,
couldn’t prevent unimaginable
Even with the tender release of
Hope, wafting sweetly, swaying
in a lavender mist,
did History fail its reward?
For you and I
unrelenting in our passions,
became our past