POEM: The Distance of the Moon Does Not Make Me Love It AnyLess

The Distance of the Moon Does Not Make Me Love It Any Less What would it be like to have a girl who called me “baby”? The nurturance of it, the silliness of it. I like to imagine foreign sound waves bouncing against my ears. It is not writing well that is the needful act, either. It isthe still point of light that writing brings with it. The clearing out of all the junk I find myself walking into each day, bumping my shins. This, a sharing with like minded people. Hanging out on the corner of solitude & communion. Sometimes I do feel like an ambulance always stuck in traffic. Time is not mine at all, but a splintered resource, shared by every other living thing outside of me. I am prescribed, scribbled on a pad, waiting to be filled. Every hour is mapped, as detailed as a GPS. I realize that being unemployed would correct this. Or being pornographically wealthy would too. But isn’t there any room in my coffee for a splash of milk? I cannot remain disconnected – one part of me loathes this about me, the other part cheers me on for this. There are worse things than being disconnected, you know, like being unemployed, or like gathering mud into the shape of pies because you have nothing else to eat. Saints I know have made a career of not knowing. Value seems to be in knowing though, and this requires hanging from a tree branch by your knees with an elephant migraine waiting for your head to explode, just to stay connected. The distance of the moon from the earth does not make me love it any less. It is its mystery. It is its hidden tattoo whose meaning and location only I know of .