The Story of the Man in the Moon

my kitchen (a pome about time)

my kitchen
has become
some sort of
time machine -
layering thoughts
upon me, around
me.

lost in thought
streams - paris
rue's this or that,
a dreamery ruse,
complicated muse,
perturbed premise...

i ponder cellphones
as well as paris - how
they might lead to that.
or not. txt messages -
'pomes' sent out.

my kitchen is really
positioned on the dark
side of the moon where
most humans can't see it.

a metal box i live in and some-
how breathe in and try to exper-
ence life in. you can't fence life in.
you can't whimper in the corner. you
and everyone else breathes recycled
air. over and over again. cycles of cycles
within cycles as cyclists cycle past future
moments so fast as if on the tour de france
or the tour de 'other thing' (redacted poetry
from USia somewhere... sorry to all of
you stuck on earth...)

the garbage ship barges always come at 10:23
Central Standared Time on earth, a moment in be-
twixt one two and yew in universal time, and it wakes
me up. and i look
at the main console -
to see if any new messages have
come in. being a time mechanic second
class (a simple poet like Glass perhaps)
is a lonely career path
i think sometimes.

i had a dream the other day about a novel named Hannah. did
i tell you that yet? blog you that yet? blurrier still yet?
and yet...

i like my job.

tremendously.

fits my personality
my demeanor, my
thinking at one point
that you could (rather
that i could) live within a
poem, bound by such bound-
aries as word limits and space
and time and ones and zeros and
is there a 42 hour poem? how
does it read? fast? slow? lo,
and behold, does it show?
do i know?

and the view really is amazing from
here. enough to keep you up some
nights.

i might as well tell you the name of
this place. what they call it. 'pome
station one.' others 'pome station
alpha.' even others 'pome station
prime.' i don't mind it has so
many names.

poetry is escape.

poetry is storytelling.

poetry is message.

poetry is form.

leave it to the scientists
hard at work back on earth
to come up with a perfect
formula to tame with
numbers (or try to)
this thing called
poetry.

and if things get too tough,
or even better, when things
get a lot softer - i'll parachute
back to earth to enjoy the last
few moments stretched out into
eternity.