the Moon Limps Across Heaven

  And so the moon limps across Heaven, littered with
the space junk of America and Russia
and the litany of humanity is a broken planet of paranoia     
and archaic isms riddled with the discrimination
of plastic Christs and metallic Buddhas
and the holocaust is nothing but a fabrication.
  Oh thick wind roar, oh rivers flowing in slow motion           
lava-like progression . . .
  Oh untimely baritone soothsayer who legitimizes poverty     
and documents of industrialized progress —
while behind closed doors political pawns set in motion
yet another assault upon the very foundation
of mankind’s reason to be.
  In Tibet, prayer flags try to heal the broken limbs
of rebellious monks while the children of Africa
become forgotten in jungles and cities
pregnant and swollen with AIDS epidemic.
  Oh where be the white healthy breath
emanating from lungs devoid of sour music,
where innocence sways back and forth in a rocking chair
upon a verdant backyard
of green moss?
  The mountains, the oceans, the holy armpit of fertile pastures,
the old ways, the dying farmer, the lifeblood of the land — 
slowly dissolving beneath the wheels
of bacterial tractors.
  The once lush fields of the air, now scarred by
the blasphemy of hissing machinery,
the unstoppable anthem of smoggy copulation, sighs
like an ethereal chorus and succumbs to the power of 10 billion     
automobiles spewing forth self righteous and godless
emissions.
  And here I am and there you are —  stuck inside
the frames of a soap opera of shame, unmoving, complacent     
in our own mad deformity of consciousness,
paralyzed in a suicidal death march toward the very edges     
of the known universe — skull like and dressed
in the robes of Eden’s hopeless fugitives.
  Oh dark star that we pray to during moments
of mumbling confusion, pretense of divinity, aesthetics       
born in the womb of religious propaganda —
Would that you would fade into a distant galaxy
and we could begin to explore the spiritual marrow of
non-electrical light.
  Would that we could arise from our drunken state
of psychological infirmary and address the virginal
frog mind of serenity.
  But lo — we fornicate with robots, we idolize pubic hair     
and worship at the feet of a black magician who curses
the tiny fragments of tenderness allotted to us.
  Thus, I stand amidst this rubble, this non-creative     
combustible century and utter forth a prayer to the beards     
of the old gods and the new gods —
  I eradicate my own fear, I announce my desire to be           
embraced inside the wide open cosmic dream,
  I sit at the table of the prophets and poets of all Eternity,     
I correspond with the unseen messenger
and hope that in time the moon will no longer limp
and that we as a species will connect the dots
and recognize the bliss that dwells behind

the myriad layers of the human mind.