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Wild Moon Symphony Preview Kyoti Back Issues Comments
There you sit with all the glow and jade-green insight of a cat 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 it’s 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 The stars may twitch a little just 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 of regularity, 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 Thin stimulus, 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.
BLIND DATE
Evening stiffens her back with spine-chill and glitter. and every light is turned on; pars and frennelles flood meaningless facades. Theatrics FOLLOW CERTAIN COUPLES through enchantment and folly, harassing blind dates. Unexplained laughter and breaking glass hijinks the mood under every lamppost. Leering cross-eyed, festooned above the slanted alleyways, the cat scattered night of the city winks TOO MANY moons.
Jimmy's poetry table of contents © Jimmy Warner 2000
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Jimmy Warner's Wild Moon Transit 
