When I went to find a pic of the moon, which I called Big Moon, I did find the pic and it was called BIG MOON.
Before you read my poem, let's examine those shadows on the moon. What must they be? I give up. Read about them here.
GARBAGE NIGHT
Beneath Big Moon
Black Sunday Sky
Constellations
hang like puppets
eons above us.
Containers of garbage
line our quiet nine o'clock street.
For ten years in my crawl space
baby clothes lie awaiting movement.
When the furnace man checks "whazzup" under there
I ask him to drag out the plastic bags. I will not look,
but carry them, with St. Scott's help
onto the curb to await morning.
It's like babies have died.
Have been aborted.
Milk dried up in withered breasts.
Sometimes Death is the only restorer.
Death and the silence of the moon
and the magic sparkling lanterns
hung there since time immemorial.
PURSUE THE WONDERFUL is a new column in the Compass. Just sent out a notice asking ND folks to tell us something you're looking f/w to OR that you're already doing that is giving your life an extra boost.
I said I'm looking f/w to taking piano lessons with Joanna, since I bought an electric keyboard on Friday night.
Tomro, I swear I'll practice. Really?
Those darling puppets were on again tonight. The Mabel Beaton Puppets. Let's find them now.
Ready? Aim? Click onto Youtube?
Mabel Beaton Marionettes.
Scott remembered that the late Ron Abrams got into puppetry and showed us a video of his puppets. I'd forgotten all about it.
NOTE TO RON: We still remember you, RBA.
REMEMBERING RON
Ron, of the great laugh, the snazzy clothes, the oyster soup you once served at your apartment, how did you make your decision to be no more.
Did you tell anyone? Benfield, your doctor? Or did you simmer with it every night, putting forth the
pros and cons, like which laundry detergent to buy,
I'd call to check on you, ordering you to get on your bike and ride to the end of the world to keep yourself alive.
Such courage it took! An explosion like fireworks raining down, beautiful to see and hear, but making you, Ronald B Abrams, no longer here.
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