Jimmy Warner's Wild Moon Transit
Moonlit Wood 2 music: Windyhop, MS Music Producer
filling in my missing sections like pages from a classic play.
You speak through window glass to people in charge of poetry,
and change the everyday to more compelling stuff in metaphor.
Making love for release from boredom, the pain dies,
the gloom of former times asleep in a vacuum filled by love.
Flirting guys and babes on clouds are rarely peering down.
They go on cooing like the pigeons in a never ending thing.
Night is free to sing to empty stairs and sagging wires or dirty
back-lit streets of souls who seek the neon moon for brightening.
DARK BLUE ANGLES
Your dark blue angles twist my vision,
flesh out the invisible motions like travel pangs.
Another couple might sleep through a night of iron chills
in peace as though God breathed the same air.
With a similar sigh your thumbs wake us like wadded blankets
as they shift gentle strategies of touch.
In dreams you teach us a mode of love
in which to seize the night.
Outside, beyond our bodies lie the unseen
Pagan shimmers and Lunar shadows barely passing,
waiting up for couples with a promise of Limousines.
We turn while boundless galaxies fall like frozen stones,
the atmosphere claiming more than its share of eternity.
Only you could sense that night is where we really are,
forced to shut our eyes to things, to set ourselves aside,
power up the natural magic and search for an emptiness.
You test our poetic moments because the sun is without
and you are within ... or the opposite, for all it matters.
Without days you would still claim to exist, to love life,
to cling to night's true character, yet be wistful about the day.
You would note by moonlight on tiptoed rounds those
half-dressed remnants of ourselves, the misplaced fears,
the heart of angular momentum where uncertainties linger
naked against your throat, and never let you sleep.
You like to stand guard while I dream,
you, alone on a garden wall or a parapet.
Are there stones below? Will you go beyond them?
Does love protect the creatures of the dark?
What's left after dawn, after the beautiful sunrise
for me, is not sunlight, and the days are mere debris.
Your heart is racing and you are correct to point out
that man is something nervous, reminiscent of a shrew,
an idiot who still needs the paradise he outgrew.
Getting from place to place is all heaped up,
a dumping ground for courageous effort, lost and longed for.
Love and longing are like thirst, stronger than greed
guiding us through ever darker and darker spaces.
THE STARS @ NIGHT
to fill your space with borrowed energy
when all those particles start colliding
and pieces of the universe undo themselves
more briskly than Texas-blue turbulence;
bigger and more brightly than the stars
out of exaggerated skies at night,
drawn microns closer by a faltering
deep in the heart of some anti-matter.
As momentary as the breath of a gnat
impedance will slow the cosmic expansion
just long enough to lessen the moon's pull
on some Waxahachie lake front languor,
retard one blink of a crane's eye or hamper
the titter of wings in one square foot
of territorial fleas.
Just before a single microsecond
of Earth history ceases to exist,
like a cesium clock short one photon
a subtle though unnerving event
will occur and as quickly
revert to non-occurrence.
The stars at night will blur some insignificant
evening with less protocol than plain chili
and not even the most wholly and harmonically
converged being will notice what happened,
that is, aside from the kajillion new jobs
created in Cosmic Engineering.
Lake of Dreams: a Lunar Eclipse
watching the lunar eclipse:
shards of coral reef,
a last glimmer of brown shade,
momentary cold sardonix,
topaz yellowish hint of straw,
somber rose, orange Julius
obstinate colors, resilient,
creamy naked, evocative,
ringed with infinite log fire,
ominous browns and grays,
dull embers of coal
struck with elusive ions of flint,
light from a glowing bone.
Earth shadows drag dirt, our eyes fill with cinders,
bat lashes against the moon like a butterfly kiss.
The desert above and the desert below
do not distinguish one shine from the other.
We are sifted over with grains
of emptiness and indifference
despite a thermo-nuclear light.
We are between rock and shadow
bottomed out on the Lake of Dreams
profane, less than crystal,
at home in homeless quandary,
waiting for another comet.
Evening stiffens her back
with spine-chill and glitter.
and every light is turned on;
pars and fresnels
flood meaningless facades.
FOLLOW CERTAIN COUPLES
through enchantment and folly,
harassing blind dates.
and breaking glass
hijinks the mood
under every lamppost.
the slanted alleyways,
the cat scattered
night of the city
winks TOO MANY moons.