& I was the poet laureate
of the Moon with my wife
of eternity & unforgotten
rage, & we reigned
on our crescent of sky —
weak in gravity, though good for dancing,
& low in air, so good for quiet
musings — & we received tickets
to fly north to other moons
or other planets within an imagination
or our space ships,
& often we traveled
to foreign solar soil, mist,
or gas where gravity is weak,
& this year, our tickets were sent
forth for Earth (whence we had
departed in anger & dreams)
for the birthday party being
given for the first patented
living-aluminum tree,
& we arrived contrary
to our political skepticisms,
without celebration, & with scrip good
for any shop on Planet Earth —
a biosphere of malls whirling
in an oxygen-laden repression
of clocks – where we are
wandering on heavy tiles
searching for the predetermined
under the tree gift,
without our wine, & with a rage
in a marketplace where
the melody of our screams
can be voiced one more time
on this solar-less-lit plaza planet.
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.