LIFE ON THE MOON
tripping
shoes run electric shock currents of
ecstacy splattered faith in
graffiti murals of the Sistine chapel on
reinvented six and eight trains rotate
comfort in slow turning tables recorded
playing back sonic tracks trampling
explosives in matchstick conflagrations of
pyrotechnic delirium lighting up geodesic trailers
light
as a sudden contrast to visc- surreal nothingness
illuminates kaleidoscope lubricated dreams of
eidetic sin contained in complex breast
tongue out-stretched for sacred wafer
administered by judas the maccabee
slamming firmly forward at 4 to 5 hours
per-cussionary rocking the bedpost
distending mused scorn away by impact
crash
discordance on this endless tonight
"s" carved upon beautiful chest
laying across pride and pain
tasting live epicurean senses
sweat clear manna until dawn
prelude to a finality that
never seems to arrive on time
for me to exit
quickly
left of stage
toward the epicenter of dust
dervishes whirl vocal perturbations
amidst alcoholic rainbows
ending in pots of un-carved stone
eyes hinged on utopia
polaroids of perfection here
in this side mirror of dusty red puddles
of time consumed in burning moments
unreal
BY JANE
Lines in winter
...for Helen
fall's first cold front
bellows w/the swift
belligerence of ancient
native-removing hordes, but louder
longer
than the miles
of slow freight
cars whistle
this university town
still
on each hour
here, under bullet-colored skies
I hear
the languid clack-
ing of their wheels, feel
the fastness
of the fangs
of that cold wind pierces
my newly-shaven face. This place has not
changed
since that November
morning, the carnage of your
pieces half-
blanketed in frozen sheets
of rain
just north of town.
Police 2-ways cracked through
snowflakes -- oversized, slow parachutes --
spoke in code -- numbers for events.
A crowd had gathered.
A leather-jacketed broadcast student videotaped, said he'd
make good money for such footage. You were this engine's third
suicide in as many months ...
Troubled friend, you were not
those numbers.
that wreckage.
some capitalist's camera-fodder.
You were
21
a year or two younger than me. We'd fallen among the same
rock and roll kids
mickey mouse drugs
tired professors' pulpits, all
our failed
undertakings. I remember your old apartment
all of us on that peeled-paint wood-slat porch
on Prospect St. across
from the Sterling convenience & gas
they'd built atop the razed remains
of some oil-boom bordello
summer '93, watching the scenesters pass by
Francis & Kim on vinyl, upstairs, singing Cohen's words:
I can't forget.
& I cannot.
When your train whistles through town, predawn, crying.
When winter's first aluminum-toothed wind bites
for the first time each year.
When I'd walk your tracks
to shortcut home. Every time I sing
this poem
'Red'
