The Moon is a Crying Man

Small steps. Small people,

With brisk as the bloom blue kites

Tied to the hands of the hemisphere.

So cold, the movement of icicles in this heat.

Atom sized sweat drops filled with millions of atoms.

With millions of sounds, of the rush of the twists,

Of the observations turning like clips in my mind.

By some blind sight the solid point when I realize.

Stop.

Breathe.

But even then they turn over and over like

Math formulas written in the dark, like

Repetitivity of the stories,

I was told a story as a child.

About a boy who cried of a tiger.

Lied, but when the tiger eyes came alive.

No one came to rescue.

Why?

The Moral: because people lose faith quickly.

Passionate beliefs with quick strides,

Quick lives, and sharp knives.

Sharp knives turning tables of fate.

And so by God’s grace, by hot drunken summer nights,

By angsty animals floating about the city let me be made

Into something of substance.

High as the cocaine visions of my mates,

Of muddy clear, sweaty palms think covered by green grass imaginations,

Sing to me in my dreams.

I’ve become quite good at fiction.

So as I banter and make you believe

I live an unfunctioned, hung at the edge of teen years life,

Let me correct you,

My soul is old. I write poetry not for you, but because I’m told by my spirit animal.

Allen Ginsberg.

I like him a lot. I really do.

With or without control he’s shown me the best equation.

You take paper and ink and then you make

Sweet, sweet, might sweet glorious love of words caught in that middle

Ground of half dreams and half reality.

The atmosphere of a metaphoric hemisphere,

And trust me you will find answers.

Not one. But millions and billions of atoms floating about.

And you’ll see that being young is quite melancholy,

and Bukowski is the heaviest thing to drink on a light, summer night.

So you’ll look at the moon and say,

This world is damned and so am I.  

Reviews

[Aarontastic]

You really channeled your inner-Ginsberg on this one, because it is highly reminiscent of his style, and it's apparent that you used a similar technique to what he used in his famous poem. It reads like a stream of consciousness, it's discursive and unwieldy and unique. It's difficult for a reader like me to pick up the common thread running through a poem like this that ties everything together, so I'm not going to try lol. I appreciate it for what it is though, and how it makes me feel, without trying to decode it. But you did strongly convey your love of writing poetry and how you go about writing it.

[Stammers]

Tied to the hands of the hemisphere.

I really hope you get somewhere with your poetry. This just ran faster and faster into brilliance. I loved it. Gorgeous.

[sentimental~ galore]

Thank you so much! And I wish the same for you. :)