Love, the moon keeps hiding you, while tonight, into this party, the homunculus trio is tiptoeing: sad salon music, charming the cocktails and canapes out of their nighties. But where are you? I miss you.
Here is the hallway, the stairway, the bowtie someone snapped on my effigy. And here in this vestibule I come upon a coupon that promises more anomie, half-off and hand-delivered.
I was on your road to now-here, past the tunneling worms. Daisies on the bridge were waving, all teeth. My blanched cravings for you are shivering, are waking me far away, your furbelows fluttering.
Remember when we daubed each other with the mud of procreation? I opened your blouse, you laughed and told me where to go next: into lunar research. “Because, darling, every week there are twenty more craters rendered extinct!”
Our old castle is still desperate, the walls pitted and bleached. But still some corporations want my statues for their lobbies, my tin installations for their pastoral retreats. Only not quite yet: they’re happy to wait for a time when the man in the moon has eaten me away.
--Richard Pearse
Nora Almeida: Integral #1 Integral #2 Integral #3
Richard Pearse: A Woman Cloud Young and Angry at the Moon
Olga Pester: the roof of merger refrigerator memo
Joe Robitaille: Oleo Strut Oligarchy Strychnine The Rest of Lamps
William Sanders: Easter Poem [another poem by W. Sanders (& another)]
Sarah Sarai: hAve You Been Married, the Sister asK
Pietro Scorsone: After Tomorrow Random 1-4
