There you go naked again
banging your head on the rafters
supporting the sky. Knocking the birds
loose from their nesting flights.
Your thoughts are spinning
in untoward directions.
Your brain has lost its moorings,
your Cadillac pills aren’t working.
On the far side of the moon
you find Hoffa. There’s a parade
but it drifts like lilies in Heaven.
The moon never knows where to land
when the lovelorn await momentum.
There’re cameras in your garden
and microphones in the bath.
There is no escape
from the compound of needs.
Only hurried exits, brief returns,
the jinni obscuring our dreams.
This article appears in October 2015.
