Moonhead

andy:

did you hear the one

about the day the moon fell to earth?

it had a crater exactly the size

of a human head on it

and it landed on my head

and now my head is the moon.

or the one about the day

a thousand lives from now

when we return as a team of archeologists

and discover fossils of ourselves

in a former life

on the day we spurned our nervous twitch

and found our yearn to hint at winter bliss.

on the day the stars

sang the national anthem of sweaty disbelief,

of coelacanth teeth,

to scream loud enough

to shatter the roof of a coral reef

and the shrapnel ground up into paint

for robin's egg colored dream

and root beer float,

second hand flavored drool absorbers

and the words "hope" and "home"

that sound the same,

smell the same as the day

the doe caught a sad snowflake on her

tongue and melted it in an instant

and it tasted like the blackhole's

wild-eyed longing for light,

whether from the starts that radiate

or the planets that reflect it

or the eyes that reflect the reflection,

or the eyes looking into those eyes

and seeing the reflection of the eyes,

which if all goes according to plan,

will outlast the universe itself.