There are bluebirds flying all around
Inside my head
And I am reminded that tomorrow,
I may not hold your hand again
and I may never feel your teeth sink
Into my skin, again
                                      and wasn't that
                                   supposed to be
                              a good thing?
I'm left cleaning up the scraps,
the mess we leave behind
Like it's my responsibility
to carry your heartbreak, too.
                                         wasn't it
                                   supposed to be good
                              when I was with you?
I read somewhere
                       This is where you fire your musket,
              and this is where you fall and die
but I've fired my musket-heart
and I haven't fallen and I'm still dying
for you to look me in the eye
Like you still mean it;
Like there isn't some line in the sand
you have drawn arbitrarily
to measure what has been inside my heart
When you never cared to ask.
Love, those bluebirds are making it hard to see
through all their Pulsing wings,
But in their eclipse,
I'm finding a ring of light.

Somewhere on the moon last night, Neil Armstrong came back to life and was standing in the middle of the Sea of Tranquility in complete darkness.  His frail, decaying hands that were no doubt filled with formaldehyde, held a rather large and sure-to-be extremely heavy boombox that loomed up and over his head, blasting “Total Eclipse of the Heart” on repeat.  He said that it crossed his mind more than once to replace the six faded white American Flags with the stereo, but ultimately decided against it.


In mythology, bleeding is considered to be a feminine attribute:  
                                     “I bleed, therefore I am.” 
(But this is also the downfall of a version of feminism that is not intersecular.)  ((Your lunar cycle does not necessarily need to function in order to be considered a woman.))  (((I am not sure of which, if any, version of feminism Neil Armstrong subscribed to.)))

                                                ­              ­                            When a woman is bleeding, they say that she is at the height of her power; she is aligned with the tides and the cosmos.  She is celestial.  Blood is sacred,
eternal—the very essence of our beings—
                                                ­        ­      ­             but if the Blood Moon was
                                                ­                  really just the moon on her period,
what could she do last night she could do at no other point in her life?  
Where was her power?  She was isolated,
                                                                ­              forgotten by the sun,
                                           hidden away inside the umbra of the earth.  

(Which is the part where the masculine power of the sun rejected the most important feminine attribute of the moon.)


Michael Collins flew solo around the moon while Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin played with dust and rocks.  For 48 minutes he was completely alone, radio silenced behind the shadow, and he thought about death and being the last man standing from Apollo 11.


Inside Neil Armstrong’s speakers, Bonnie Tyler was crooning that
                      “your love is like a shadow on me all of the time,”
and I have not yet decided if this is                      
                                                                ­       good      or      bad.  
Instead, I am wondering if Buzz Aldrin feels sore for
eternally being second best?  Or if he still thinks that the view from the
moon is still one of “magnificent desolation?”  And
does he feel this way about all three of his ex-wives?  
Do they know that the moon was his first love?


We name missions to the moon, to
Luna’s surface, to Diana’s territory, after a
Greek and Roman god of the sun, when
                                                            ­          wolves howl to the goddess
                                                         ­                              instead.

---

black crows fly
flock to the moon
and pick its fields clean
i sit and watch the harvest
as if in a dream

its face is barely visible
its light torn from its eyes
i sit here a'weeping
as it sails the skies

o brave moon!
do not despair!
don't give them a thought!
they may pluck your lighted fields
but their work is all for naught!

later in the evening
i see you have not waned!
as for all the scavengers

not a one remains.


soulsurvivor
(C) 9/28/2015

is it selfish to hope that my son
turns out more like me
to hope he cares more about things
like the lunar eclipse or the lifetime of a tree over the next level on a video game?

to see the world through a wider set of eyes
and to know there is much more to life than the day to day routines
that nature matters
and so does recycling and knowledge of plants

reading should still be done out of books
and learning to write in cursive still matters
I hope he sees the beauty in the stars
and how small but important we are in the vast universe we get to be apart of
how what we do here on earth
effects our solar system

when he gets older I hope he realizes
other people's feelings around him
how the things he says and does truly effect someone else
I hope he cares about his health
that he dosent smoke and dosent drink too much
is conciencious of his eating choices
and goes for an apple over chips
I hope he sees he only has one life
and that he sets out to make the most of it

I hope he is never too ******* himself
because he realizes no one is perfect
and that he takes the time to
take care of himself
I hope he wants to live in this world over the makeshift realities brainwashing todays Youth through TV and games
I hope he questions who he is
and who he wants to be even in the good times not just the bad

I hope when the next lunar eclipse comes around
he will want to watch it with his Mom
because he knows how much she adores both the moon and her son

In the morning when the moon hides,
That's where I'll be.

The same place,
The same face.

Lost in thought, lost in space, floating around you, just in case;
look up you might see

I'll be amongst the atmosphere biding my time,
Waiting in time to shine off your reflection.

I'll be there at the reception of the clouds,
Waiting for the storm to pass.
You'll be proud now when you see who I am crescenly.

Presently I'm a lunatic, the tides not been on my side recently.
I frequently find myself hiding amongst the abyss, prophetically deep in thought,
waiting for the storm to pass and reveal myself like a lunar eclipse.

Those loose lips cause a nuisance.
Sink ships.

But why do you care about those haters with so many holes and so many craters.

That's not like you, that's not the moon I know.

I'll see you later this evening,
like most nights,
or I might of the storm passes in time.