Okay, my friends, here’s the deal. You like poetry? You like particularly maudlin confessional poetry? I got you covered.
The self-published Cold Moon is available for purchase.
You want a copy? Here’s how to get one… choose your option and sally forth:
- I WANT A COPY IN PERSON! Tell me you want me to bring a copy to somewhere we’ll both be. Bring $16. We’ll trade. (Alternatively, if you’re gonna be somewhere Scott’s gonna be, I can probably twist his arm and get HIM to bring you a copy.)
- I WANT A COPY SHIPPED or I WANT TO GET ONE WITHOUT YOU KNOWING I DID IT! (me? I’d probably always be an anonymous buyer. What if I don’t like it? Now I won’t ever have to tell you…): Head on over to http://www.blurb.com/b/7342112-cold-moon and order your very own. This is a print-on-demand service, so you’ll get an estimate of when it’s gonna arrive. Easy for me, as I don’t have to handle any shipping details. Price will vary depending on the shipping option you choose, but it seemed to be running around $22 total.
- I WANT A COPY SHIPPED BUT I ALSO WANT YOU TO SIGN IT! That’s cool. We can work out the details. I have Paypal, or if you’re afraid of interwebby buying, we can work out something. Drop me a message at: stoplightpoetry (at) gmail (dot) com and let me know you want a copy, as well as your preferred method of payment, and we’ll get it all arranged. Just to keep things simple, this option will run you $22.
Disclosure: I have a limited number on hand. If I run out, I can get more, but it’ll take time.
we act with varying degrees of premeditation,
and you know how the dangerous moon must do what it does.
because of this i can’t tell if the threatened confession —
the siren song of the road —
is more or less than calculated temptation.
i want you to say something true.
i thought we’d forgotten how to dream,
but goddamn if we don’t wake again to the strains of that sweetest song.
I was drawn and quartered
on the floor
when the sirens kicked in
and we had forgotten the old drill
of waiting for all clear.
And we were sorry for not listening,
so we made our hearing hard.
And I deserved these desertions —
diversions from the way
it never stops calling the wind.
Its hunger the devouring dark
of a new-moon midnight,
we feed it,
and feed it again —
an open vein,
salt eye and skin,
sorrow and shame —
and it feasts
yet first grows thinner
for a time —
a lying in wait,
but always testing the air
for thin wires of light —
measuring the most minute movement,
ever ready to take us unaware.
Here on the bottom,
I push my fingers into the mud,
with all the music of the world,
muffled and receding.
There is no hand.
The sun cuts the gray and sheds itself
on leaves that blur in lines,
faded and unreal as memory —
a sediment heavy as stone
and the all-devouring dream.
A Cooper’s hawk is winding upward —
the alarm in his scream is lost
in this inward pressure,
the caress of cold water —
the collected rain that runs from this place.
There was still so much to say.
Slowly everything is carried away —
voice and vision,
wind and water,
blood and bone.
Everything is lost at last to its turning.
With a wicked sense
but no eye that could see
we sought —
but could learn no kind
There is this language of turning —
(coyote hunts the night) —
and I am lost to it.
Always there is the forgetting,
but the moon has spilled its silver on us again.
and again —
a clockwork dream
that hides then reveals
We haunt the constant return.
We sing out! —
and are our own again.
the words of banishing were on my lips but when my feet hit the ice they were only the second pair to make tracks on the fresh-fallen snow and I followed the coyote’s meander round a bent wood and through cattails and up down a hill past curious chickadees and rising again found him — the fog of his disappearing breaths — so close and for a moment felt the fear and enticement of prey
So this is what we can be:
a star so faint
as to be only
and transitory as moonlight
caught in an icicle.
None can take the care
to see —
so small and shrinking
to this pale point of light,
then blinking —
a remote pulse that fades
with the night.
I still see the evidence of my passing,
nine days gone now.
But we are ephemeral as hoar frost on the trees at false dawn.
And there is no permanence —
just this splitting and reforming.
I want to demand an understanding,
but in these depths of winter,
moments of truth or beauty are fleeting.
We try to catch on and hold them,
but they melt in the rising sun and let us go.
Three woodpeckers —
all the robins flocked in the hollow.
Things that are always and never the same.
We can barely comprehend it,
how we move in this place —
our scale so skewed —
where all is a fraction of a fraction.
Our small constancies.
The nothingness of it all
when we see the hoar frost.
We make a feast
of the most bitter truths,
and sacrifice the voice
to beautiful lies.
And only the sun,
bright but weak
in its splintered wintry arc,
can discern and balance the scales.
Naked skin pebbles
in the frozen wind —
we stand on the low rise,
surrounded by unbent prairie grass.
And here there is no escaping
that dissonant voice
and has always followed.
We are always out before it,
but know deep,
where the truth churns the lie,
some day it must overtake us.