Now that we are on in years,
celebrations change and dwindle
to little remnants of tradition.
We are two stragglers
from life’s journey,
Left behind by the young,
No longer nurturing him,
yet tied to his well-being
even as we wait for his call.
I celebrate Yule not in our home,
but by imaging his joy beside a tree,
his exchange of gifts with her.
And I recall the first Christmas
with my husband, falling asleep together
under a mammoth tree filled with light.
We made ornaments for fun
and poverty didn’t matter.
I wrote a poem for him,
decorated with scenes of our life.
And now, we are too weary
to celebrate like that.
It is as if we pore through a box,
a ragged thing, dragged through time,
looking for souvenirs of joy
and memories of the life we had
when he was here.

The dust of the creeping evening
On the mammoth sphere falls
The day has flown way
somwhere to sing
Reminding the people
The dreams they had seen
On the pillow I place
My reflective mind
As the silence of thick darkness
Brings back to me
The golden moments i had lost
When the day was much bright
On the floor i see the chance
Shattered into pieces lying
Promising nothing
Still a little bit light
In my pensive heart shines
In this confusion we live
But tomorrow may be and may not be
Only today was full of life
With heaviness of mind i lie
Promising myself to achieve
My goals at this very moments only

I am 14.6 billion years old. I am energy traveling at the speed of light,
I am a single proton with one orbiting electron, perfectly balanced
With quarks and bosons and higgs inside
And pieces of matter yet to be understood by man.
I am every star, every atom of Hydrogen fused to Helium.
I am a massive object of molten rock, cooling and fusing.
I am trilobite knee and dinosaur tooth,
Wooly mammoth hair fiber.
I am Permian Extinction, I am Ice Age, I am all surviving species.
I am most distant brothers of man, I am first language and first songs.
I am Bubonic Plague and Death
And life out of new molecules from old.
I am the Industrial Revolution,
I am Depression and Holocaust and oppression.
I am titanium and assembly line.
I am Perseid meteor shower and Halley ’s Comet.
I am every black hole,
Inside, another whole universe of me.

I am seconds young, and I have much to learn of
The multitudes of the universe, myself.

[Since the season has been a bit overwhelming for me, I wanted to share a children's poem from my earlier collections. Hope you enjoy this other side of my personality ;-)]

DIGGIN’

Doug dug a hole to China
And there upon the way
Another Doug was digging
To see the U.S.A.

Doug and Doug stopped digging
Then heard more digging sounds.
A shovel came protruding
And Dougie was inbound.

Dougie, Doug and Doug sat down,
And I’m not kidding you,
The dirt collapsed above them
And Doug the Fourth came through.

Eight more Dougs came digging,
A dozen Dougs in all.
It felt so overcrowded
They dug four mammoth walls.

Now, middle earth’s a party,
So if you dare the trek,
Come dancing down with diggers
At 12 Dougs Discotheque.


Steve Roberson

My demons, the colossus of slaughter
and infantile undoing
are draped as a jagged carcass of a wreath,
of twisted and malignant ****** limbs,
upon my shoulders and stark throat
dripping stagnant
as a mangled bear of grizzled fur and barbed wire,
I heave this colossal mane
my sanctioned torturing ever heaven bearing,
legs biting tension, tibias finally cracking
I trudge, seethe and scourge with limbs
far rusted and burdened,
the girth of my weighing
wreath of clotted bone and blood,
mammoth corpse of whale and boorish bear,
hunker down about these broken hinged blades of shoulder,
godly cloak of human sin, and iron curtain
my siphoned lungs drain about the ground
dripping from the flesh of my lips,
spilling out as life,
I cough and purge all my mortal given organs
upon the belly of the Earth,
wreath of anchor chain and rotted animal bulk
bar and breach this shrapnel spine,
legs splintered,
no man might carry,
only a corpse could accept
the wearing weight of the worlds sins,
I forever stammer on

remember  when we were young?

i was a baby mammoth
and you were a giant squid;
at first we ignored
each other in the classroom
but paid close attention
to our awkward body language
by the parking lot
next to the jungle gym

you were just one syllable
and i was an entire conversation
the subject somehow landed
on the preservation of science
and the fall of religion

your eyes lit up when i said
i was single because you
were in a long term relationship

said it was perfect timing
because you were ready
for marriage

i scoffed at the idea
with my legs trembling
inside the mouth
of quicksand

you pulled me up,
told me not to worry
and reminded me
that the ending
was all part of the plan

my ***** swam like
a swarm of insects
into your gaping
wound; spilling
over the sides
of the womb
causing your eyes
to roll back;
you moaned
you were
ready to come
soon

we came to,
as two;
our bodies intertwined
under the gapped-
tooth moonlight
smile

this was our crime,
we were young at the time

now here we are,
older than life permits
the body to exist;

i admit, i wouldn't
want to share this
moment with anyone
other than you,

my feline friend

train to Chicago...*

See it from a train.
Should have called it
the Rust Apocalypse.
Endless piles of industrial
woolly mammoth skeletons
turned red by the rust
that never sleeps or blinks.
Miles and miles of factory,
mills, and foundry corpses.
The workers long scattered
to $10 per hour ***** jobs.
Businesses gone with the workers.
Globalization at its finest.
The end of the people's value.
Amerika crumbles of dry rot.
Enjoy your stuff, good citizen.
This will all come to you.
There is no immunity
to endless, mindless greed.

   ~mce

Bang the drum slowly

There was a rhythm, an echo
Everything, after to day has been leavend
by Iain McGilchrist I heard him speak on Youtube.
----
We can learn forever, I think he agrees. We live to learn.
I've lived a bit longer.

When the teacher is ready the student appears
in arrears
twisted from duty by dereliction

do you understand, stand under, any

one thing word god idea and that's it truth?
I do.
What idea do you stand under?
Seek and ye, meaning me, shall find.
seek a place where you believe that is known
make that place your home,
make that place
make that
effectual, fervent axing fells the forest for the trees

if you please, brief turing-inspired tests of ideas
re-presenting old good ideas
rusted through disuse

for possible recyclings through a level of minecraft.
the wargames are
less
rewarding, post-war on terror.
After age 27, winning alone is not enough,
even the gang, the fam, the team
all the weese we ever was

We aint. I am

needing meaning like air

oh my god, a worship song I heard that
You are the air I breathe

do we, the we of you and me believe air is good?

we do, I knew. Good, 'ts'at mean? Air is meaning?

all one after the morph into alone
I am the way or there is no way

that could be the story but for you,

I-Thou Philosophy, I bow to thee,

en passant on pointe

Ministry of truth Prognosticator Hagee he say
Hell? Yes, he say Hell yest'here is a hell for all

who fail to escape it. I say
One way or another,

you escape one hell,
paying nothing more than proper attention
to detail (did we define duty),

you know how, do it as needed,
friends help but
eventually, something like a father must judge me

good. That is the whole duty. Or else nothing,
eventually right,
live a life that brings honor,
he who troubles his own house

inherits the wind,
you heard he said I came to divide?

Split the flow with a contrail of ice
cutting through the clouds
a jet plane don’t know if
any thing of the sort was ever seen

before my generation.
slice the current into paisleys bubbles reaching away
from the point whence most heat meats least resistance
boiling begins
bubbles emerge and pop.

as old as sin
then
yada, the chorus sings, all the little milk sops sing

yada yada yada and mock the need

to know, you know? More,

after all's been said and done why goes on,

she waves, Cliché crashes to my frontal lobe from lizard brain
Dive in
follow wisdom flowing past
our di er rama drama direct ******* of re ality ify ing

ding.
Did that work? That's maybe
as good as praying, effective

Judge you, I judge me. Can I live with your
following the flow I followed

ob right ob vious not en vious

if the clouds and rain were what water wishes to be,
first some tears must add specialsalt to the sea,
earth salt, from mudmen,
then salt ***** water from
the mud after the flood
when the mammoth
died, (Thank him, for his bones)

then grandpa tells another lie and we laugh
and he weeps

it only hurts, when I laught, he winks,

She pushes and the story takes 'is father's breath,
his first alone, all one, all the air in the world
flowing in to fill the need pressing listing
need need need to breathe
lusting listing and
there,
a new whirl in the world
with all the wind an heir may need
someday, from one bubble to another

in one breath.
One beat of the walking drum,

Have you ever felt
The world slip away from your fingers
Your hopes, worries and anxiety
All crush you beneath a mammoth of fears
That no matter how much you struggle
It'll push further till you bleed
How much you try standing up
It'll splinter the strength in your marrow
Bit by bit
You Crumble and fret
And all of a sudden
You stop struggling.

Have you ever felt
Like giving up to it
Just embrace the slumber
Sooner than planned
And close your eyes
Forever?

I have. I do. I will. Until it all ends...

Within a world of azure blue,
the mantas glide with angel wings,
and fly on winds of ocean waves,
inside their realm of mystery.

Like ancient beings from the deep,
they flash and shimmer in our light,
with other-worldly mammoth forms;
cephalic fins and flattened frames.

These gentle giants of the night,
draw fishes from the briny deep,
their vivid forms flash to and fro,
feed on the banquet of the sea.

They dance balletic in our lights;
exquisite, rings and summersaults,
with bubbles lit to guide their path,
they glide just past our mortal reach.

These stunning marvels of the deep,
are but a finite sampling,
of what our planet offers up,
far past our wild imaginings.

Confusion,
Mammoth depth to your words,
In my head,
Shallow as they were intended,
Different meaning was sensed.
Amend to simplicity and concern
yourself with me.
For now dearest continue freely
Through uncomplicated mundanities.
At Once, At last, if never,
We will pass swiftly,
Quick grins,
Sweating palms,
Confusion.

[Dedicated to George Raffalovich]


In the Years of the Primal Course, in the dawn of terrestrial
birth,
Man mastered the mammoth and horse, and Man was the
Lord of the Earth.

He made him an hollow skin from the heart of an holy tree,
He compassed the earth therein, and Man was the Lord of
the Sea.

He controlled the vigour of steam, he harnessed the light-
ning for hire;
He drove the celestial team, and man was the Lord of the
Fire.

Deep-mouthed from their thrones deep-seated, the choirs
of the æeons declare
The last of the demons defeated, for Man is the Lord of
the Air.

Arise, O Man, in thy strength! the kingdom is thine to
inherit,
Till the high gods witness at length that Man is the Lord
of his spirit.

The light from the stars glistened off or her eyes, making appear even brighter. Something I never imagined possible.

As we walked, sounds of oceans waves, crashing against the sandy beaches orchestrated a symphony of sounds we’ve never heard. It created a tremendous sound that echoed throughout our bodies, as huge waves of clashed against beach shore, colliding with the mammoth stones, protecting the shoreline.

That sound, such power and grace, raged on throughout the night.

The air was cool; salty and damp from the ocean’s mist. The crickets creaked and whistled, as if calling to each other in a synchronized harmony.

Bullfrogs croaked loudly; as if abruptly belching. Yet, perfectly in sync.

Each sound, in perfect harmony, echoing off of each other, dissipating into the sounds of the hollowing breeze, brushing against huge the paddled shaped leaves of the Palms trees surrounding the beach.
The taste of salt, tainted the flavor of our lips.  The fresh aroma of ripe  mangos, still lingers; on our fingertips, and lips.

Moments ago, the rich sweet creamy juice drip uncontrollably. Pouring our from the sides of fruit, slowly pooling in the palms; after dripping from my lips. Other drops, seep though the corners of my hand, falling to the ground, seeping through cracks of the black sand.

We laugh. I smile, because this time when you smile - it seems as if your smile is wider than your face. Finally.

The view is amazing.

Strong winds still pulling at the trucks of the trees. Bending and throwing them, back and forth, helplessly – they sway to the unyielding wind; their trunks bending under the weight of the harsh ocean wind. Leaves thrash violently; the swinging and swaying of the branches created a unique sound, the hollowed across the midnight, carried by the arms of the wind, cascading across the colorless sky.  

The sounds, were overwhelming.

Off in the distance, strains of white light beaming down a small accumulation of clouds, illuminating the water’s edge; the dim beams of light dancing over the crest of the waves, swaying and shifting effortlessly against each other. The current pulling them, as they drift in the throws of the ocean; glittering and glistening, as they seemly dive over waters edge, spilling off of the earths surface, never to be seen again.

The thought alone, is priceless.

A little girl sat at breakfast eating
Her cheerios with a straw
She commented about all things
In her upsy downsy voice
The world seemed so colourful
As she smiled at her sock animals
And the plastic mammoth by her plate.

She was nearly always late for school
As there was just too much to say
But daddy and her usually made it
Evelyn loved school but was equally
Happy at home with her family
She drew beautifully images of animals
From a television programme, it helped,
They were so friendly with big eyes.
She was an unusual four year old.

Love Grandma  Mary ***

Freezing dusk is closing
    Like a slow trap of steel
On trees and roads and hills and all
    That can no longer feel.
        But the carp is in its depth
          Like a planet in its heaven.
        And the badger in its bedding
          Like a loaf in the oven.
        And the butterfly in its mummy
          Like a viol in its case.
        And the owl in its feathers
          Like a doll in its lace.

Freezing dusk has tightened
    Like a nut ******* tight
On the starry aeroplane
    Of the soaring night.
        But the trout is in its hole
          Like a chuckle in a sleeper.
        The hare strays down the highway
          Like a root going deeper.
        The snail is dry in the outhouse
          Like a seed in a sunflower.
        The owl is pale on the gatepost
          Like a clock on its tower.

Moonlight freezes the shaggy world
    Like a mammoth of ice -
The past and the future
    Are the jaws of a steel vice.
        But the cod is in the tide-rip
          Like a key in a purse.
        The deer are on the bare-blown hill
          Like smiles on a nurse.
        The flies are behind the plaster
          Like the lost score of a jig.
        Sparrows are in the ivy-clump
          Like money in a pig.

Such a frost
    The flimsy moon
        Has lost her wits.

          A star falls.

The sweating farmers
    Turn in their sleep
        Like oxen on spits.

three years I worshipped
in the red brick cathedrals
by the ugliest lake on the planet,
but I was cast out of the holy halls,
with mounds of Mellaril, and other sacred potions in pill form  
to see the “outreach caseworker”, though I never knew
what she was reaching for  

my husband had divorced me,
both my sons were in Dallas, dealing cards
at Wall Street casinos,  holding the aces for themselves or a chosen few,
like I really knew anything about what  
filled their days  

my sister took me in,
fed me finger foods, had her maid bathe me  
and invited the ghosts from my past into her house  
they all hugged me and told me how nice my hair looked  
now that I was no longer yanking it out by the fist full  
and choking on it as it went down    

they smelled of sycophantic scents from Macy’s
and Neiman Marcus, and I longed for the odor of my cellmate,
who had to be submerged in a steaming sea once a week, after
they had pumped enough of Morpheus’ brew in her to
mellow a mammoth    

I missed her, and her truculent silence
and the way her arms writhed in her jacket,
like so many snakes squirming to be free,
or perhaps those were the last sin eating serpents
in their death throes, but I would never know
for in 1000 days and 1000 nights, her jacket
was never removed, for the white ones feared what  
black storm waited inside, so they allowed it to hide  
someplace in her fetid carcass  

now when I look across the charcoal stillness
of my room, cluttered with dead distractions,
I imagine her there, on her cot, producing anthems
on mad marching afternoons, or singing lullabies
in evenings last gasps, all without making a sound,  
then my eyes well with tears, for I know
she would miss me too, and worry
what I was doomed to hear and smell
now that her mystic music and stench
were stolen from me

when he was 84, he rarely recalled
the Great War, though he left a finger somewhere
in French soil, and on deep sleep nights,
few and far between, it would call him
a spectral image of  gas dead faces
drifting through like sallow clouds
in the charcoal sky

his nephew was the only one left
to fish these green waters, to court the steady
trout that he too saw in his dreams--all the others,
even his own sons, marching  in the concrete squares
of the cities, visiting now and then like peddlers
hawking wares he could not understand...
soccer games and mutual funds
gourmet feasts at eateries
with cryptic names

the lake was still the same
the  loons chatting, the waves lapping
but without his Helen, the fish he caught
were usually granted reprieve, saved from
his sharp gutting blade, her sizzling skillet,
and without her beside him under her ancient quilts,
the nights were not longer, for grief, he knew,
did not stretch time, but only
made its circle smaller

was a sun sated Saturday
when the nephew had honey do's as good excuses
and the old man was left alone, sitting by a black rotary phone,
waiting for one of his old nine digits to dial the new nine and two ones,
it is what they all would have expected, a cry for help, a long mute ambulance ride, them seeing him helpless with hoses and wires, delaying the funeral pyres, as was the custom in this post teen century

instead, though he felt the anvil on his chest,
and sweat drenched his JC Penney work shirt,
he moved not his feeble fingers to the phone, but his fated feet
to the lake, once only a long a hop from the porch, now a mammoth journey, ten, twelve Sisyphus steps downhill--when he reached the waters edge, the fowl called him casually, their slow song on the currents,
and he sat in the fresh grass, watching the painted blue sky
he saw the fins of those he had set free, hoping
that would count for something
when he curled in fetal repose,
and closed his eyes
by this lonely lake

What professions could you aspire,
with your sky-wide hands—a mountain for hire?

A stepper, a stomper, a mammoth barbarian?
Surely there’s something—must you be a librarian?

Look at your size! It doesn’t make sense!
You sat just now on the library fence!

The ‘brary doors open ‘low even your knees
The shelves at your toes! The people like fleas!

You could never succeed as a little librarian.
No less than a lion could eat vegetarian!

I told him all that. Fact, I told him twice!
But a dream is no more a gift than a vice.

For my giant had dreamt of a future so long
filled with books-upon-books, snug where they belong.

He’s clung too far n’ too fast to simply comprise,
‘for he’ll give up his dream, he’ll alter his size!

Thus he searches the land for the littlest books,
hoping each tiny page will change how he looks

One day, he imagines, he’ll fit through those doors.
He’ll walk through the stacks—how a dream can endure!

With thousands of little books scooped up in his arms,
the giant starts reading ‘til he’s learned every word.

But a thousand, a million, no number of verses
could shrink down that giant to the size of a person.

Closing the cover, his dreams ‘gan to fade
the shelves and the stacks—the future he’d made.

‘til a comforting voice squeaked all of a sudden
What a wonderful book! Could I check out this one?

The giant looked downward, right under his nose
at a thousand odd books shelved right in his toes

I warned and I cautioned, now I must carry-in,
no ‘brary keeps books like the giant librarian!

Mine pet;

When coming to America, I shalt showeth thee
All fifty states, of the United States
Mine queen....

Alabama; Down south, the place of the little river canyon national reserve, at the top of lookout mountain, where bird's canst be heard.
Alaska; A place far out west, a wild domain, a place untamed, where thou canst let out thy wildness.
Arizona; a place of ourn beloved poet ( soul survivor) a native American land, where cacti run the land's, and dirt is bright red.
Arkansas; To hot spring's national park, where beauty canst be seen in the dark, and soaked in through the warm bubbled water.
California; A place redwood tree's and Sequoia's, a land for the strange, and weird thing's, where all cometh together.
Colorado; where mine oldest brother liveth, where the crystalline water as a drink it giveth, and the *****'s peak highly amour'.
Connecticut; A place of Eastern sandshores, where we canst walketh in ourn galore, holding hand's, I'll sayeth me more!!!
Delaware; Delmara peninsula where we canst seeith awe-shocking elegance, where we canst travel in all remembrance.
Florida; thither mine middle brother's terra firma, a place of alligator's, swamp's, ocean waves, surfer's and hot sun drop's.
Georgia; The place where slave's fought hard, Atlanta city, a big place of life, fast and slow.where rich men go to liveth large.
Hawaii; Tropical island like thy own, not connected to the mainland though, swaying tree's like thy own, heavenly splendor.
Idaho; Where we canst get the best potatoes, I'll make them mashed, with gravy, chicken and tomatoes, I'll feed thee good.
Illinois; Where the huge city of Chicago sit's, large skyscraper's, and city bliss. Where the water sparkles the view.
Indiana; Marengo Cave National Landmark, where we canst sneak inside the cave's, then to Indianapolis, to wander through the shade.
Iowa; To Pikes Peak state park, where the Mississippi and Wisconsin river's meet to start, a beautiful picture indeed.
Kansas; Off to Rock City, an odd place where two-hundred boulders rest, then to Kansas Cosmosphere and Space Center to explore a place of knowledge, learning of the new, and happiness.
Kentucky; To Mammoth Cave National Park, in strangeness we shalt walk the dark, with lantern's to carry ourn shadow's.
Louisiana; Also the well known area of New orlean's, where jazz music doesn't stop and the people art it's scene. Where people overcometh!!!!
Maine; To get some of the best seafood around, the eastern wind shalt bloweth us around, as love thou shouldst bring a coat dear.
Maryland; Where Edgar Allen poe was born, where the Raven sung and mourned, though the sunshine shines it's people.
Massachusetts; The land of Many Irishmen and fishermen, settling thee down in Boston, where the accent of the easterly go loudly.
Michigan; The state just above me, they haveth natural lake's and the chill is breezed, the soul's art kind, and people dream, their alive.
Minnesota; where the snow piles to thy ride, the whitened picture is Christmas to thy eye's, as thou wilt need to dress warm.
Mississippi; Deep down south, where the language changes, word's art more southern and slang it clingeth, onto thy lip's.
Missouri; First to the St. Louis arch, it bend's to the sky and is six hundred and twenty five feet from thy heart, as high we shalt view.
Montana; Western freedom, wherein nature is painted, horses roam, thing's aren't tainted, guileless and natural.
Nebraska; Betwixt the corn stalks and field's, farmer's work hard and people art real, as hard work like thy country is known.
Nevada; To Las Vegas the desert Oasis, light's art big, as room's art spacious, different is here with a million face's, gambler's taketh their chances.
New Hampshire; Near Lake Winnipesaukee, a sensible area where being's doeth their best, eastward again, bringeth hot dress.
New Jersey; To Atlantic City on the boardwalk, a place of tales and beach defined walk, sunshined day's where lingo talk's, and the traveling shalt be sweet.
New Mexico; Dusty native land, the dirt is grained, the pinnacles of silence is maintained, by God's still voice.
New York; Aka- The big apple, where immigrant's once cameth through, immigrant's as me thou and you. Meaning were all the same.
North Carolina; Blue Ridge *****'s peak the entry, ancient places here art serene, tranquil relaxing is here mine queen!!!
North Dakota; farther again out west, talk to the Indian's to get the best, they'll giveth thee information to inform the rest.
Ohio; Mine state, the heart of the country, I mean by it's shape, were surrounded by all, we sit on a lake, we hath cornfield's, barn's, southern Hill's, northern star's, kind folk's and fancy cars, mixed with great stores for shopping, as I'll buyeth thee as much as thy heart canst be enlarged.
Oklahoma; Indigenous territory, creatures art relaxed, no need for no hurry.
Oregon; Where tree's groweth big, rainfall is the normal, and wild children art the kid's, beautiful scenery is blossoming mist.
Pennsylvania; On the eastern edge of the Appalachian Top's, green none make believe, the quietness is beauty, a part of God!!!

Within this jungle, which is ours
I ride the back of Thunder-cloud, my friend

Around and through the thickets
thick banyan trees & palm fruit fallen leaves

Down muddy earthen paths
until everything is green and shadows

until inside its heart, the rain forest
trees of this jungle are city buildings - tall

and choir of fauna high and low
do not fear to sing beneath our cathedral's shade

In this kingdom of flora and ruby rich dirt
belongs to thunder-cloud and dirt-poor me

A Mowgli on his elephant,
hollars ahead to any that hear "We are free!"

Here, far from the whips' lashing, guns,
away from the loud business of murderous money

They who say that I am nothing
in their eyes who abacus my worth with looks

with upraising lust of wolves
but I a free man, a simpleton for beloved (Earth)

I am dark skinned
Krishna on my steed of thunder-clouds

A native son of brown & green wilderness
caterwauling to the beyonds unknown

Within our jungle, brother thunder,
my elephant of deep clouds gray

we are Mammoth and as wild as wide
as open as free... with every step forward

on this living journey
we will take

a peaceful kind of smile
will only be what is written
                                                       upon each lovely lovely face




*(Within our jungles...we live simply
without the Man's hate
not today will I hunger, nor will I thirst
fed on real wonder, drank clouds of Himalayan rain
without a rupee to my name... on the back of thunder
my gentle Ganesh - I have no one to blame.)

Man-Moth: Newspaper misprint for "mammoth."
      
          Here, above,
cracks in the buldings are filled with battered moonlight.
The whole shadow of Man is only as big as his hat.
It lies at his feet like a circle for a doll to stand on,
and he makes an inverted pin, the point magnetized to the moon.
He does not see the moon; he observes only her vast properties,
feeling the queer light on his hands, neither warm nor cold,
of a temperature impossible to records in thermometers.

          But when the Man-Moth
pays his rare, although occasional, visits to the surface,
the moon looks rather different to him.  He emerges
from an opening under the edge of one of the sidewalks
and nervously begins to scale the faces of the buildings.
He thinks the moon is a small hole at the top of the sky,
proving the sky quite useless for protection.
He trembles, but must investigate as high as he can climb.

          Up the façades,
his shadow dragging like a photographer's cloth behind him
he climbs fearfully, thinking that this time he will manage
to push his small head through that round clean opening
and be forced through, as from a tube, in black scrolls on the light.
(Man, standing below him, has no such illusions.)
But what the Man-Moth fears most he must do, although
he fails, of course, and falls back scared but quite unhurt.

          Then he returns
to the pale subways of cement he calls his home. He flits,
he flutters, and cannot get aboard the silent trains
fast enough to suit him.  The doors close swiftly.
The Man-Moth always seats himself facing the wrong way
and the train starts at once at its full, terrible speed,
without a shift in gears or a gradation of any sort.
He cannot tell the rate at which he travels backwards.

          Each night he must
be carried through artificial tunnels and dream recurrent dreams.
Just as the ties recur beneath his train, these underlie
his rushing brain.  He does not dare look out the window,
for the third rail, the unbroken draught of poison,
runs there beside him. He regards it as a disease
he has inherited the susceptibility to.  He has to keep
his hands in his pockets, as others must wear mufflers.

          If you catch him,
hold up a flashlight to his eye.  It's all dark pupil,
an entire night itself, whose haired horizon tightens
as he stares back, and closes up the eye.  Then from the lids
one tear, his only possession, like the bee's sting, slips.
Slyly he palms it, and if you're not paying attention
he'll swallow it.  However, if you watch, he'll hand it over,
cool as from underground springs and pure enough to drink.

you were on the numbing screen
or more like your mammoth shape.
he purred like you used to purr
when your dandelion lips
swallowed me.
he spoke with broken glass and
limp wings.
my chest went humpty dumpty.
his eyes. not even close.
or his hands.
your hands. oh,
how they roamed my hills and valleys.
his words were yours.
a man in lion's fur
cowardly lion, more like.
but you were there. but you are gone.
gone with the firsts.
gone with the lasts.
gone.
with the pieces made of sunshine
and lemon pie.
i look through the holes, where the pieces are missing.
the fingers stick through.
i feel nothing.
and i know it's all your fault.