Look at this- our Lunar World-
whiteness and fluorescent light
flicker down in glucose rays
on Ball in the Hall:
but the cardboard stays
in Peter's room- gimme that broom
you stupid jackass there's dust every night,
and refuse from the pizza call.
if you're inside this lair
don't mess with the gundams
or fuck U.S. mail,
they'll give you conundrums
but fling the shades open
I need sun for my plant
but cringe from the doorway
there's a man with a knife
who says I insulted and Emmit Smith
pissed in his cornflakes, ran off with his wife;
yet this I deny
and all becomes well
when i salute Phil, who mans the computer,
and Sarah and Sarah: but which one is cuter?
Neither one! I preferred the Bertha.
Yet something is wrong.
One song stays unsung-
not in the rain,
or the sun on a shoulder,
as it pertains to darkness, something much bolder:
The Neotonous Resistance of France
burns down the hallway without wearing pants
swears in the ashes, yet
plots not in the snow-frosted Chex
the heat wave of glory from the Counterstrike defense
mechanisms conflicting with theological uprisings
or the war or the physics or success with my writings-
but despising inertia that's binding my feet
onto the earth and the times that I'm used to-
that's killing me.
What times?
The nauseously sweet
echo of syrupy,
cheap freshman memories all but gone.
Dead water lilies.
This is the song.
Do I need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows?
Would it help, I suppose,
to know where it goes with our half-dozen souls
five seconds from now?
The pennies fall down.
Have left the same hand, and, no longer gathered,
are five seconds distant
and five reminiscent:
if the pennies could talk,
the wind wouldn't listen.
So farewell my friends-
I'm off to the frats
to drown my sorrows in the ink of my pens.
Don't take off your hats or give me your bows
when I leave to lose myself in its hollow, grinding crowds.
But wait! What?
WHO IS THIS WILD, LONG-HAIRED MAN
WHO HAILS FROM MARYLAND?
"I'm not Legolas."
WHAT? WHAT? WHAT'S GOING ON IN THERE?
"I'm here in the shower- just need a bath, really."
WHAT TIME IS IT? WHAT TIME IS IT? TELL ME SOMETHING PROFOUND!
"Oh don't be silly.
It's Good-times.
And by the way-"
WHAT?
"I am circumcised."
But it was Good-times,
and I turned around.
So tell me a moment that never dies,
and I'll tell you a sword, and sever your ties
that held Lunar World in the blink paralyzed
by your eyes frozen wide, for by a crime only
sentimentality arrests the vitality of Now,
but worst of all, the Past.
Take a magic missle to Lunar World,
let memory unfurl
the old majesty,
and let that be
enough to last.
