A bright moon over the South Hill means I can see while sleeping.
Flames heat my vertebrae at 7:33 Postmodern Time, and November’s arranged,
one full month before Pearl Harbor’s bombed
when oil from the Arizona leaks nostalgically up.
I’ve never been to Hawaii. That’s my grievance against God. Money is one thing.
He is an Other. One Industrial Revolution and two World Wars and consciousness’
alone to show for it, a fictional story to say the least. Genomes run the show as they like,
like so called, Reality T.V.
Don’t look, dearest Moon,
I’m ashamed of our dangling ever eastward.
A pattern of waveslapping against the shorein rock, and the wavesundulate a dead fomentthat’s evidence for us.We were absent whenan express shuttleto Logan’s Pass never cameuntil we wanted to stayovernight in CampgroundC, and make the volunteerto hike the Highline trail.A pattern to adjectivalusage and modifiers likebeautifully sublime is sortof desperate, don’t youthink... as if the Belt Seawere made of GenuineImitation Leather andluridly loosened a notchby some crotch-curiousGoddess who appealsthrough stone striationsfor three graduates ofNiagara Falls to makethe pilgrimmage from NewYork and to wear yoga pantsupon a Haystack boulderand then to gossip aboutfriending a former middle-school teacher who stilllooks buff when they sawhim working out last at theFitness Center? Age-a definite pattern to suchflings that’s haphazardand never ends happily.