run from the cat
the light the giants
run from anything
not everything
is trying to **** you
but any of it could
there's enough crumbs
on the edges to survive.

If I were a watch man
I'd grab the moon and
put it in my pocket, man
take it out every now and then
and ask him O moon
is it time yet to give up
the ghost of my past loves
whose paths I've long crossed
lost and missed my chance
since the crows have danced
and left tracks with their feet
cut deep into my cheekbones
but I've never owned a watch
it's true (believe it or not)
or cared to know the time
and the moon looks just fine
shining up there in the sky
such a scene to be seen
instead of stuck in a pocket
of my old gray faded jeans.

She loosens on tiptoe
the latch of her window,

slides upward the sash
and the shine of the moon

pours over the sill,
like it's rushing downhill

like a silver stream,
flooding her room.

every night I try to imagine how the moon dances.
I wonder,
does she know that the sky needs the dusk's embrace for her to appear?

I want to ask her,
“Does it get lonely up there?”
because sometimes the sand-like stars aren't enough

just like how certain things in this world could not keep the sadness at bay
where these things, like the tide,
change
and you don't know if you should get used to smiling everyday.

you want to.
you do.

but you're fearful of the waves suddenly stopping,
when peace becomes an equinox until the day disappears in full
and you can't tell your eyes anymore to stop screaming.

See, this is how the moon sometimes amazes me;
the way she can disappear ad interim
and come back when she's whole again.

I wish I could be like that.
disappear.
be whole again.

There is an actress
who always plays the dark parts
in my dreams handcuffed
to the moon with black seams
in her stockings asking me
to paint her behind
the scenes in the fifty-est
shades of red
you've ever seen.

Last night drinking
cherry cured 'shine
from Tennessee
I caught the moon
flinching behind
a tree like a white
flower afraid to be
cut from its dark stalk
whereas in the spring
when I'm sober
it grows outside my
window before daylight
when moths come
and die gently while
I lie here listening
to their silent soft wings
dreaming of bleeding
in my sleep and find
no trace of a wound
aching in the harsh red cut
of another day breaking.

Moon keeps moving

Why not stay still?

Aha

Moving

Movement

Life

I lay awake at night,
and curse at the moon.
I wish I could speak to you,
but you are beyond my sweet tune.
I know when I sleep,
it's the only time I reach you.
You always meet me halfway,
on the dark side of the moon.
I wish I could remember,
what happens when I dream.
I know that I'm with you,
I can feel it when I wake.
It's like you've been holding me,
torn with wanting me to stay,
but you know it's not my time yet,
so you beckon me to wake.
I miss you so much,
at the first light of day,
but I know I'll meet you again,
it's a feeling I can't shake.