When They Come For Us

 In a cramped gov't office

let our affair begin. 

I shall publish my passion

on an illegal press in the basement 

of an abandoned apartment complex

run by a nice foreign couple.

They had to flee

one step ahead of an inflamed mob,

but who now tend window boxes

and play cello duets.

Undress for me

like a chrysalis.

Speak to me

through a paper cup

and down a long string to my heart.

When they come for us--

having already disposed of the foreign couple--

we will sing,

our song enhanced by the ropes

around our throats,

Our dignity flying proudly

like a banner

or a prayer flag

or a balloon man at a car dealer

Until we kiss,

infuriating our tormentors

and made to dig our own graves beforehand

with love trinkets,

and our bare hands

as if making love or committing homicide.

Be Good

 You know,

how does a person get to that place?

I mean,

you're born,

someone loves you,

you find a place in the world and take each step until

there you are,

looking like GI Joe,

blowing the brains out of a smiling woman in a mom-car

then sauntering on

like a cool breeze.

Bad as it was

bad as the lies about it are

bad as the blood all over the stuffed toys and the airbag were,

the thing that made me finally cry, and scream,

and not know how to contain what I felt

was the "before" image

of the pet dog in the back seat.

How does someone get up in the morning,

slip into their army man bullshit,

and go blow away a smiling woman with her dog?

Jonathan Ross, how did you get there

with a gun in your hand,

her death on your head,

and a pet dog rolling away with its dead mom at the wheel?

Moon Rocks

 I've been thinking about moon rocks.

Are they dark gray like the walls of your bedroom?

Silver like the cuffs you gave me

   back when I loved chokers and cuffs?

These days I don't even wear scarves anymore.

What do moon rocks remember, when they think back?

Harsh white, like a cop's flashlight

   shining in the driver's side window of their memories?

Or endless darkness, a constant turning way

   the way you used to do once you'd decided to move on?

I wonder, what if I had built a circle of moon rocks

   on the table underneath a calendar for the year 1996?

A circle of salt keeps negative spirits at bay, but 

   I wanted you to stay. like a fluorescent star on a ceiling

or a passage in a gnostic gospel that only poets ever memorize.

What happened to the moon rocks, I wonder?

Are they the kissing cousins of spring tulips or bright pansies

   in some retired NASA wonk's side garden?

Or do they sit forever in a silent room like bus station ghosts,

   with no ticket home, feeling melancholy and missing it all

even though it was nothing but rocks and dust, bright light and darkness?