Stolen ribbons

[not_art_not_war]

Lunar Drunk

Like two spoonfulls of
dark moonlight;
she struck into the room like
a piece of terrestrial day,
perfectly normal;
perfectly orbiting
the space
between me
and her
and ordinary time

the small kingdom
of thursday,
friday,
lucid summer cycles in the late
august light,
peddling towards the next good time.

-----

Dakota Weights

Flat endless sickness
as the first fever
waits to break;
the last thousand miles
turns into a sleek sandy waiting game

patience; a virtue
I forgot when the Mississippi
went dry
and the dregs of wind-blown Iowa
were just yesterday's grit
between borrowed sheets

I have one thousand
one hundred and
sixty six
miles to finish,
each waiting patiently in snow-abandoned plains
for me to cross once more,
spitting oil and someone's borrowed cheer

persuing dad's then
and my now;

a twice-copied chapter
in a long-lost book of bad poetry