I Am The Moon

I am the moon, scattered amongst the ebb and flow

All of the shiny pieces to be taken in, collected

Admired, from afar as so many have dreamt, and intimately as only the bravest few have tread

Though I am stuck in this earthly embrace, this dance in space

That princely parapet with whom only dreamers in the night connect

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I Am The Moon

Tempered

Tempered in the fires of society
you’ve been kept in line
within the confines
that they’ll allow
between their predefined
thresholds of deviation
Anything less or more
is left to be moored
by the police-authority

Because you wouldn’t play their game
you refused to pursue
their evangelical
greed for the purse, the money
the proposal of the self
before anything else
You’d rather burn Wall Street
than to walk it in stride
alongside the “apex” life
with an all-too-socialized bride

What? You think your’re original?
That Greek gem,
The Roman puppy,
Your favorite contemporary
have all done this already
You’re stuck sucking from their teat
You just take in their art
process it on a whim
then shit it out with your own
petty pseudo-witty veneer

You’ve let them contain you
in this transparent cage
though less like the diamond you’d prefer
and more like the glass ceiling you’d defer
right back to those who created it
from their palaces up on the hill
they look down without
seeing those they forced supplicant
living in blissful ignorance

We could burn the hill down
melt this rustic cage
if only I could escape this maze
this amaranthine labyrinth
that’s so tragically beautiful
the way it captures my gaze
soon to spit me out
from within its spinneret
in being and mind, wholly new
as a zombie like all of you

Tempered

Sappho — Catullus — Zachor

Here, the one who is god-like
exceeding great cosmic power
because they command your attention
although not through force
Your laughter — only it can wrench
my heart from depression darkest
For when my gaze meets yours, my voice has
forgotten its place
Tongue swallowed whole, and within
lava bubbles to the pores of my skin,
thunder of the gods cannot be heard, the veil
has concealed my eyes
Tepid sweat envelops, my person rattled
throughout, as bereft as the dead
as I am and inert — as the dirt
covering this Earth
Torpor, Zachor, is your enemy true: torpor
pushes you to the worst of your extremes:
torpor, through the ages, has felled those once of bravado
and celerity
That this Lillith has lilt your heart from within
burning, but not just at both, yet from all ends
her hands pull at the ashen wicks – threads – strings
to this heart’s content
Sappho — Catullus — Zachor

The Solstice’s Gentle Whisper

And when you leave
you’ll have been another mistake
that I made through inaction
through these years
blowing in the breeze
as a dried dead husk
What I will miss the most
as with so many others
is the idea of you
the pillow intimacy
and soft words unsaid
only ever imagined

I need the heat of summer
I need to feel her breeze in my beard
that wisp that taps my shoulder
haunting me through my waking dreams
arousing me to this fever pitch

That gesture you made
as you walked away
like on a hot dry day
being bathed in the sea
an incongruous ebb
amongst the never ceasing flow
Or like the breeze
with the scent of summer flowers
against the torrential showers
whisking about with ease
this last bastion of hope
from the unthreading rope

I need the summer comfort
I need to feel her caress; her breeze
that hand on the back like a salve
unknowingly pushing me onward
despite all this resistance

And when this grows
ever too cold to bear
after summer has left her snare behind
to turn this sanguineous
stream frozen still
with only hapless hope
Will she return
to this land once more
bringing with her
the time when again
hills are verdantly beaming
bright against the sky

The Solstice’s Gentle Whisper

The Search and The Path

I see you from afar
nearer though than I can tell
from across this schism
This gap, This chasm
I may attempt to cross
but how does one
prune and prick
the blunted seeds of the past
to let them lie and die
away from the now
in order to move forward
toward the prized hoard
that which differs ‘tween us all
to be the blinding light
to which all else falters
The coda to The Search
For that is what I aim
with you, for us

We could sweep from the black earth
all of its soot and what hides within
and with roots unearthed
rise from this lessened berth
or to set aside
our own garden of bliss
protected from all
that would hope to detract
or skew or refract
this beautiful sapling

I see you from afar
like the words in a book
intimately I know you
but only intellectually
for the seed has only
sprouted in my mind
and in times like these
I stroll the orchard
full of the choicest fruits
ill-labored and in bloom
as I choose
The Path; It winds
on a precarious whim
at times out of reach
My way is all I seek
as my feet find their way
falling into place
with me, for me

The Search and The Path

The Recipe

…Ten years later

Him

So, why didn’t you ever give me that Matzoh Ball Soup recipe?

Her

(exasperated sigh) …

Him

What? Did I say something?

Her

I didn’t want to give you my Matzoh Ball Soup recipe; I wanted to be the person who made it for you.

Him

Oh…

A baby cries faintly.

Her

Oh, little Talia is awake. Must be time to feed her. Adam works early tomorrow, so it’s my night to watch the little one.

Him

Yeah, you should get to her.

Her

It’s been great catching up. I’ll call you sometime?

Him

Okay.

Dial tone…

The Recipe

The Pupil

Well, from the eye
I can see that I
Am still yet fully formed
Though adult in externality
Still a pupil to experiences
That have yet to unfold

Pupil, pupil, pupil, pupil
Which one to choose
The student or the eye
That which sees
Or that which can traverse the seas
But only under the tutelage
Of one who knows
One of the knowledge…

What the fuck is there in the eye
That it’s all that any pseudo-romantic
Can speak of

What’s there in the mind
Of a budding youngling
But that which will be molded
And tortured and mangled
And bemuddled?

I want to have one of those nights
One you see in a movie
A moment
Unbefuddled
One that all but fully encompasses
All that can be called art

But what is that?

The Pupil