Some say I’m of the sun;
Burning bright and blue.
But few can’t understand
The woes of mischievous moons.

The day has its pay,
With drops of dew on its shoe.
It knows what to do.
It shines.
It’s wise.
Yet it frowns down upon the gloom
Known only by mischievous moons.

Someday we will collide,
And you’ll be lost in the fog
By my side.
“Hold me,”
You’ll beg.
“Hold me,”
You’ll plead.

But you cut me true.
You blocked my blue.

I’ve no time for the sun.
The night is mine to run.
Dark music and wondrous songs to accrue,
As I’m the mischievous moon.

Darling, he doesn't care about you
You're a fulltime fill-in until he finds someone better
And oh, when he breaks your heart?

I'll be front row.
Popcorn.
Ambiance.

Why would I ever consider consoling you?
You're trash.
G a r b a g e .
You look at me like you expect someone to care about your life.

Or does it bother you that I ignore your existence?
Does it make you sick? The worse you feel, the better I do.

Does that make me sound like a villain? Oh well. Every villain has some ****** depressing back-story.

I don't plan on informing you of mine. Just know, I've seen things you wouldn't last a day seeing.
I've ripped out my own heart to sew it back together.

**** with me.

angry men who do not know I do not have a dollar or a cig to spare. Ugly irrefutable contagion-handed howlers. Angry mischievous heathens that pantomime on 6:00a.m. sidewalk, Wicker Park gallow stop-sign, choreographed gutter-punk drunk walk. And of all he wants and could ever want splits down his gooey membrane brain in the outline of a noun shaped fragment of a clause, "Couldja spare 80¢ for the train," but of course I don't spare on the ellipsis or the period. Semi-colons I won't! My rubber-bottomed leather boots lash out, heavy scraping sounds trail this mirrored shadow half an angle behind me.

*****!! Blonde framed sunglasses from American Apparel, a gift from my sister in a folded Ray-Ban case is scattered on last nights bedroom floor, my girlfriend has certainly not noticed, the gloom-coated morning sun spray has not noticed; but I have unzipped a fissure in the ocular lens. My heart skips a beat. Her bedroom might as well have swallowed them whole. Now the house can halt and have the shade, swaying in Spring air in 10:22a.m. shadows. The aviator himself Howard Hughes would strike me with his 488 aircraft. Edwin Starr in his invincible sinister calypso of War would turn me round. I was sturdy as a rock until I began to forget my forgottens. These unknown unknowns I knew I needed. I'm over a quarter-century on to noon going nowhere- and quite blindly.

But then, still she could stand upright and find me. Her neck crooked, looking onward through the East, the gristly roots of rhubarb buried in her searching fingernails. She's threaded worse, and of course if I could just tell her- this is the kind of nursing which requires acute temperament and flexibility. I am thus on a journey to strike nonsense and fear from the idiotic vocabulary that put this nonsense in my head. Split through me like a butter knife into my apotropaic. Perhaps tar water could cure my ails. If not, certainly a sliver of vanilla would set me straight. Or if could just rain rain rain all day, then I'd make do without, but she is at school. My pistons are racked and nervous, and I'm not going anywhere but my rucksack stoop. I am camped in midwestern Spring soup. Fog, rain, and shade. The nightmare of day.