Faith-healing
The moon is nurse tonight.
Its therapeutic crescent
holds the sky within its care.
I feel its soothing reflection
in the bottomless asylum
of these bones. And I divine
its energetic gravity
within this rush of blood.
What wolf is this that walks
my breath? What seventh son am I?
Apollo pulls me from the underworld
with power of a god’s intent.
Oh yes, the world is healed within
a faith beyond all space and time.
And shaman-like I shine!
New Moon Monkeyshine
The moon is only new
because it turns to face the sun.
No longer is the world
a matter of its slightest interest.
Wolves are tame, coyotes
just a waste of breath, and all
the poets drowned themselves
before this singular event.
Their words are washing up
upon this pointless page. They say
the moon is always new;
the world should get a clue.
Deep Goddess
Deep sleep is nearest
that to what I am
and day is time to suffer
all delusions contrary
until I know this that
I am. The moon repeats
as specified. Returning to
the source, the sun is guided
by the cryptic goddess of
our underworld with dark
surreal and swirling dreams
of baby corn and kings,
of river-ways and rings,
of thoughts and things.
Until another day
arrives and sings.
No Independent Variable
There’s a place where science
cannot go.
No measurements exist to be
observed,
no words to be reviewed. The best
that one
can do is point to something
obvious
but not within our grasp. A mystic
says
to look upon the moon. But most
will either
turn that lunatic into a cult
of personality or immeasurably
comment that Apollo 'been there
done that'
in nineteen-sixty-nine and all we
got
was just a lousy bunch of rocks. No
matter.
There’s a thing that science never
gets
and I am always That right here
right now.
