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Thursday, July 14, 2011

The Moon Weeps Tonight

by Jerry Fishman

Gold lacquer moonpearls
Drip from the moon
And I
Swallow the drops of gold
Swimming in my tub.

I see
Of a sudden,
Proud, hairy Priapus
All raging
With taut muscles
Riding a chariot of silver
Across my sky.

This ancient eruption
In my so precise century
Slaps my face.

But I see into
The raging eyes of Old Priapus
And I long to soak his energy in my own precise body.

He flashes across the sky.
Poof! He is gone,
And modern me, bereft of awe,
Stuck in a tub
Under the sky.
Moon bathed,
But lacking the dryads, nymphs and
underground spirits of yore.

All modern in my precise tub.

I had but moment vision
Of the Ancient One,
And Gone is he now.
I alone with my gold polished moon bubbles.
Lacking the ancient awe.

My precise IPAD lies there
In the grass with my clothes.
O hideous instrument;
Magic box with
A thousand thousand eye scenes.
But the Shaking Glory of
Ancient gods
And mysteries lies not
In the prim, precise pod of purloined pictures
There on the grass
Amid my clothing.

All the whirling water around me
Spins golden bubbles
Under the Moon.
And forlorn, modern me
Trapped in the carnal emptiness of precise pictures, pictures, pictures.

I would give up my very life

To see

Oh to see
For one brief moment more
That old and raging, naked-loined god of old.

The wild Priapus
Whipping his foam-flecked silver horses, his shining quaint chariot
Across cosmoidal skies.

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