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Oh that crescent

Oh that crescent moon, 
a sweet white-light crescent
where a black outline curves,
moon-perfect, thin and round   
Melancholy, broken connections—
no guaranties, no promises—
nerves extra-sensitive, exposed

“You don’t love the oppressed”
she told him, “rather, you hate the
oppressors” the hard hearted ruthless,
well-educated rulers, famous patrons
of the arts and war, so expensive
these arts, expensive these wars,
so mean, sly, bitter, and cruel

When the wolf’s rage overwhelms us,
possesses us such that nothing
can stop us, what truths transcend
culture, transcend time? Some
evil caused by a lack of zealotry,
perhaps, or zealotry the evil cause,
the coiled mentality of then?

A sensualist, a dynamo, an angry
hedonistic wolf—your Mom projects
her bad choices onto you—she’s
the one who deserves bad luck
when all you ever wanted to
do was dance, the thinnest
of the thinnest lines, to hold to

We walked the street of the dead,
down to its southern edge
to the feathered cobra temple
at the dawn of the north-star gods
They thought, before your sacrifice,
“If I make a trophy of my enemy’s
head, all his power is mine”

Patterns of vibrations in the mind,
functions of nerves and neurons,
habitual associations, ruminations,
the mental universe of then
“Jade is precious, rare and green,
signifier gem of plant life, Spring—
our greatest celestial stone”  

He thought to make a merchandise
of his mind, neither to be regretted
nor praised—a million sperm will
find their way to nowhere, but not
the sperm that became part you—
Fortune is a coiled black cobra,
luck our life’s stark maze  

You know something, sometimes
people do change—they listen to
themselves and change while
certain of their retained essence—
intricate, delicate, strange, we’re
a blip in the crease of now—crescent-
white with our perfect black coils

-November 2, 2019-