May New Moon Special
Unremarkable redirected light:
commonplace prisms such as
the feathery organs on the bodies of krill,
legions of chromatic peasants refracting flares
dappled through whitecaps and mirrored by plankton,
bright enough to outshine bioluminescent languages in the epipelagic daylight;
at least until the horizon scatters dusk’s acute angle.
that light which is seen,
but seen by the creatures who redefine sentience.
Cognizant? Yes, but perhaps pointlessly so.
They swim, but have no control to overpower the currents,
swept along, incapable of stillness, incapable of choice.
Fluttering mindfully at one with the brine, all is arbitrary.
Under these conditions:
thought has no purpose either in planning or the present tense.
Only two domains are certain –
one is pure abstraction,
the other is the light.
The abstract we cannot know
unless the featherlike flutters
communicate those thoughts
The light we cannot know until we see it
from the krill’s perspective,
light through water, light through body,
the philosophies of being a prism
May Full Moon Special
April Showers really bring
Big May Flowers
Bright and Blooming
a brand-new start
run towards it
with an open heart
forget the clouds
forget the rain
nothing will be the same
April New Moon Special
April Showers bring
And windy days
Don't work too hard
It will fail anyway
Soak the soul
Wreck my life
And soil the world
Yes, April Showers
are hard, I know I know
You think stop and think
You're broken and low
But the rain will stop
The clouds will part
The sun will shine
You will get a new start
Maybe now you're guessing
What April Showers really bring...
March New Moon Special
Blades of Grass
I was a kid that had a lot of allergies / I couldn’t go swimming because the chlorine / Most fruits were off limits / Don’t get me started on nuts / And then there was grass / I was allergic to grass / Whenever I was in contact with it my skin would blister up / Almost immediately / So I wouldn’t touch the grass / I would look at it / I would smell it / I would linger above it / Standing on the sidewalk / There weren’t many things that I wanted to do / That I was told I couldn’t / I never wanted to play with knives / Or run with scissors / I never wanted to stand on tables / Or walk around naked / I never wanted to drink coffee / Or climb on bookshelves / But I really wanted to lay in the grass / So instead, I would lay on the concrete and watch the little blades / As they danced in the wind
March Full Moon Special
A. L. Celdon
A frog hops
From pad to pad
Like a ballerina dancing
Across the pond
Life is like that frog
Born beneath the surface
Blind to life
Slowly springing to the exterior
To jump and jump
And run and run
And forever moving
Until we slip from the lily pad
And sink again
February New Moon Special
A noun and a verb walk into a bar
seeking an object.
Adjectives and adverbs mill around,
anxious thoughts of Choose me!
visible on their expressive faces.
Particles orbit in a cloud
of uhs, try to fit in.
Nouns gossip in groups
about the verbs
conjugating in the back room.
Punctuation marks sit in dark booths,
long necks and shot glasses on the table.
We wonder if they'll stagger
to their proper places
after they finish their drinks.
A cute object with a killer smile
and fabulous hair struts in.
Heads turn to watch them swagger
to the bar, lift a cowboy boot
to the brass rail, hook a thumb
on a belt loop of their tight jeans,
and turn to survey the crowd.
The noun tilts their head,
levels a flirtatious smile,
says Hellooo there, beautiful.
they are not watching.
The punctuation marks --
order another round.
January New Moon Special
Oh, hey, it's you,
Yeah, I missed you too,
I don't have have time.
I'm sorry. I don't think so.
I told you:
I should probably go.
Hey, it's me!
I missed you!
Could you come see me
What about tomorrow,
are you free?
For just a while?
But I was...
I was only...
Okay, I get it.
January Full Moon Special
One damned flake descends
From a hasty spoonful
Scraping my wind pipe
Into atonal fits
All through tooth brushing
Its jagged edge
Now long gone to who knows where
Nags me on
In hack and sneeze--
Tears in waves--
I’m my own Vaudeville
Making a highway merge
Between oil tankers
Bolting out of the Blue Ridge
Into our bowl shaped city
And I reaching school halls
Enter a shaken cubist work
“Oppressed Hacker Descends a Staircase”
Then yak and yak about Massachusetts bards
With fourteen fourteen-year-olds
Honking, blowing, picking at nasal nuisance
All engaged in Transcendental wheezing
Group debris to Thoreau.
December New Moon Special
The Howling Wolf
Self-isolation and loneliness on the grounds of nature
while your jaw is muzzled shut
The truth spoke to you
Hiked on cliffs to reach out the echos of self-doubt
Everybody hears, but not everybody listens.
Treacherous traumas open the tundra of
old wounds through your fur coat
freezing your playfulness and freedom
Melt the boundaries created through the moon phases
as the sparkly sun protects your instincts.
Yelped and stood to reach the Statue of Unity
waiting to be understood by Coeus.
December Full Moon Special
The Dream of Monstrousness
In the dream of monstrousness, I can’t tell
which are my frayed nerve endings, which
your probe jabbing; borders
of who-is-what, who-does-what dissolve.
In this dream, you tell me
you watched me when I thought I was alone,
saw me pull cats out of the TV screen,
cuddle and talk baby talk to them,
then put one in my mouth as if to eat it. I know
this can’t have happened, but your face is serious.
Yet you’re not disgusted; I amuse you.
We swim through what is real, what imagined
like waving sea plants; their leaves brush our bodies
in the murky water, confusing us in the dream
of monstrousness--and we are both
And all this dance is, is two sodden people
trying to be close, to know each other, to connect--
only connect! And we keep trying, upside-down blind through
the wavery borders, we keep reaching.
There are bright fish and cats down here.
November New Moon Special
Shepherd of slow granite
all night your flock of stars
rove over dark houses
and empty roads
Shepherd of ancient glass
glinting in dusklight
Wanderer in fields of your
It was scar tissue and
fire that unspelled your name
the day you were
born the day you
Now your silence stretches
Nomad of snow
hail and freezing rain
the night you died you
led your wayward flock
over black hills and apple trees
as you were born
into another mind
on a path of its own
its own forever
Yours is the cycle of
desire and loneliness
Yet your stars
never know hunger
as they wheel through God’s
Your endless stars
follow you anywhere
of a perishing world
bring your herd of blue-white fires
back into warm skies
over a wintery people
out there in lonely paradise
of nothing left
too late and
with one prayer left
there’s an October creek
running by orchards
leading away through its thicket
to the half-moon valley where your stars
sleep at last
November Full Moon Special
It's dark outside
Like an endless
And open void and yet
It's so heavy
And blisteringly cold
And angrily painful and
It's so so heavy
Like nothing could ever possibly be
It's so so heavy
Open and distance
Far away and intangible
It's so so heavy
I'm dark inside
And I'm quiet
And I'm empty and yet all the same
I'm so so heavy
October New Moon Special
In your open palm, I am
waking. Here the sun opens and closes fast
as an eyelid. I am neither here nor there in the dark, an uncoupled quark
undiscovered. The tree rattles against the autumn air, frigid
in its attempt to be let in. I hover, watching the wind wake you, pull
you fast from your trips through starlight. You brew another
chamomile tea and clutch Teddy.
On the streets a mariner whistles a tune
to fog covered light posts, casting twisted shadows like morbid
faces. Is he a captain? Or just another lost
soul. Thoughts can only go so far before reaching Neverland before
washing up on the shores to stand in line -ticket counter-
for the funeral pyre. Monsters endlessly
The world blinks and
shudders from a dreamer on the precipice of dream-death,
something bitter, something pleasant
- like rotten strawberries hidden away deep in the field.
Bodies sprouting the sweetest corn-
I board the first train home, but it is raining
I can’t quite close my fist around it
October Full Moon Special
I haven’t always been so awkward
Or maybe I’ve always been this awkward
Or maybe we’ve all just gotten awkward
But I swear I just asked for a muffin
And she’s looking at me like I have something in my teeth
Did I ask for it wrong
Does she want to be my friend
Did she say something to me
I like your shirt
Oh, thank you, I like your hair
Was I supposed to say something else
I wish I had more friends
September New Moon Special
to watch the pain of words
cut through you like a blade
sharp and cutthroat
it becomes 'painful' to watch
socializing becomes a mission
something i wish to do
but to watch it unfold
something i cannot do
to watch others, do what you cannot do
the fear of being "cringe" or "loud"
so i just watch
to watch is comfort even from a distance
your place is still here
even when you're watching
September Full Moon Special
i am a wrinkled shirt
and you are in dire need of clean attire.
i sit crumpled in your hands,
creased and waiting.
but you bag me up like dirty laundry
and throw me over your shoulders.
rinse my flesh of this stick and sweat,
slick my hair to my temples
with your soft hands,
freshly washed in lavender hand soap.
set me straight,
unravel my folds,
iron out my stiff limbs,
so that i might hold you with my warmth.
for five minutes you’re pulling me close,
arms wrapped tightly around my torso,
unwilling to let go.
as if a shirt can move on its own.
i let my heat dissipate into your skin,
and though i grow cold
you let me stay close to you.
i enjoy this moment,
for it is just a moment
until i become laundry again.
August New Moon Special
On Thursday, I was holding a cup of coffee.
Little tongues of heat swept through my palms,
and steam curled past my lips.
Not that I was cold, but that human hands need warmth,
and after you left it started to rain.
The drops settled into my coffee like tears.
“Don’t you think the raindrops look like tears?”
You’re foolish, thinking you know the rain.
You sit and sip your hot coffee
folding and unfolding your cold palms.
Human hands need warmth.
“That coffee burned my lips.”
When you cried at night, I kissed your lips
so they wouldn’t need to explain the tears,
and I remedied your sobs with warmth.
I told you we needed to talk over coffee.
You said nothing, but covered my palms
with yours. It had started to rain.
On Tuesday, you sat outside in the rain,
and I sat inside to watch you. I remember—your lips
are blue. Why don’t I move? My palms
are sweating, and there are tears
dripping down my cheeks—numb. I pick up my cup of coffee
and throw it against the wall. I am appalled by warmth.
“Don’t you know that human hands need warmth?”
Wednesday screamed a scream that curdled the rain.
We didn’t drink coffee
that morning. I wished you would open your lips,
but you said nothing. Behind the bedroom door there were tears.
The pills slumped into your palms.
They didn’t cover your palms
with their white sheet—I thought human hands needed warmth.
I can’t cry—my tears
After I left the rain,
I found nine little pills forgotten by your lips,
and now they laugh at me through this rain-colored cup of coffee.
It’s Friday, and this cup of cold coffee is still between my palms.
My lips never brought you warmth, but
I hope you’ll tell me if raindrops are really tears.