a solar ghost
creeps --
the lonely wind
on the moon
of a deserted
blue planet --

Luna One, our
subspace vessel,
hiding place,
only refuge --

no one makes
a sound, not
even a sniffle.
everything is
at stake here.
we cling to life
like sick kittens.

I once camped
out under the
billions of suns
& daughters
up there on the
old coal ridge.

My initials are
carved in a rock
there, so if
we ever make it
back, I can prove
it to all of you:

I'm an Original
Earthling.
I'm made of
wind & sky,
of rain & sun.



ghost eggs in a black basket

my face is blank
a Japanese cartoon
a cultural war
of bunnies & mice
some w/ cigars & stubble
some w/ space helmets
& others in samurai pajamas

we're going to build a pyramid:
the eggs will be safe
& at long last,
our future will be hatched.

but what if they're chocolate?
or solid gold?
or made of wood
& painted to resemble grenades?

eggs from space
might not be such a
great thing after
all.

maybe they're moon owl eggs

maybe they're black light eggs
w/ ultraviolet yolks
from a black hole

maybe they're hollow
or plasticized, like the ones
my friend Gene's dad invented.

maybe they're fried & peppered,
between two pieces of wheat
toast --

maybe they're the ghosts
of baby crocodiles
buried alive in white sand
& they will make a fine lunch
for the original woman
in the alligator polo shirt

hairy hippiegirls eat hay instead

sidewalk eggs
& lawn clippings for a salad

use your imagination



peace & quiet for spider time:

all the good little spiders gather 'round --

let's pile rocks all night for ease
& convenience
in the dewy morning.

let's memorize wise lines
from long-dead mouths
to ramble off to any ears that care.

let's agree on a standard unit of measure
& do some real investigating
into the disappearance of the longhairs.

high time for a change of frequencies,
or at least, dimensions.
it's been too long.
high time for low tide.

in the wind, squinting. wishing?
you can do whatever you'd like now.