THIS WEEK’S HOROSCOPE
You’re going to fall in love this week.
There’s a good chance he’ll hurt you,
but then again,
there’s a good chance you’ll hurt him,
so pain is neither here nor there.
the universe is doing a new thing,
and you’ve got front-row seats
to the grand cosmic opening.
Pull up a lawn chair,
bring your own beverage.
someone’s about to get whipped.
Cue laugh track, cue fireworks—
either love is your religion,
or you’re afraid of getting burnt.
We’d suggest sunscreen,
but we can’t really predict the future.
We’re just doing this
STATEMENT OF PURPOSE
No cosmic horror.
No We have to stop loving like we’re hungry.
Only wolves, here.
at the corner of Saint and Sinner,
at the corner of Melancholy
Here, all plants watered.
Here, all fish fed.
Here, admission granted
to those with softness on their sleeves.
Here, no height discrepancies,
only men like gods,
only men like gods reaching.
only men like gods undulating.
Here, there is only potential.
Here, there is only light.
AND AMEN, AMEN, AMEN
after Shinji Moon
I. Backyard boy comes to me in the middle of the night,
his teeth like spotlights, stop signs, moonshine.
I pause at his entrance, wait for the universe
to bow at our feet. It is all an exercise in
refusal. I am escorted off the premises,
and not because the security guard’s been
at the wine again, but because the doors
are locked from the inside and, once upon a time,
backyard boy swallowed
the master key.
Our orbits shift south, a rearrangement of a
deranged arrangement. I’m thinking there is truth
in this, in how I opened my eyes
and out came water; how I opened
my mouth and out came
II. My heart’s a holy war, or so
the universe tells me. I am trying to turn
backyard boy into a percussion of prayer—
and amen, amen,
I press my palms to holy ground.
After some persuasion, the universe
spreads her legs for us, peels back the night.
The universe watches us explode
in mouthfuls of light.