I declare war on the stars
who continue to plague me with
answers to questions without margins.
Do the celestial beings way up above
pity us mortals whose wings
were clipped eons ago?
downcast and reticent, I withdraw
with each phase of the moon–
my righteous anger
boiling past boiling point.
Does the moon and her cohorts
mock us as we fail to grace her presence?
Engine fuel set aflame with dinosaur waste,
Is like a garden blooming with entrenched furrows
budding with delphinium monstrosities and
reluctant pupils. A bowed head with sprinkles
of hair, pale as a cistercian moon, and encapsulated
in the arched fang of a perpetual fiend, I journey past
the mundane and the monotonous limpid flow
of Life’s derision. If I close my eyes,
will I ever forget the melancholy taste of night?
Prevail, prevail! Send my loyal soldiers
swaddled in wolf’s fur and cow dung, onward!
Like a bead of sweat clinging to the
cowed lip of a idle yeoman,
they depart with a nightwalker’s glee.
Emulsion in its finest hour, wings
drenched, encapsulated in my own reverie
I inhale the opioids of life with a smile
as bright as it’s namesake.
Do the birds look down on us
and mimic the way we waddle and plummet?
Clipped wings, jarring moments
that taste of rancid meats; a pork tenderloin
littered with maggots fashioned in fine tulle and satin.
Can the sun and moon ever meet?
I envy the cycle of love and hate
that facilitate unbeknownst to me and them.
A tango of passion, fire and ice
with tendrils of idiosyncrasies.
But wonders never cease
as I pray beneath a waning crescent.
I pray and push as my body
tingles with new impressions and stirrings.
Stellification they may label it
in centuries to come, entombed in
cuneiform or godforsaken English,
but the act is more thrilling than an idle man’s lie.