RIC S. BASTASA


fourteen


While in china at night on the great wall
By a hill, there he writes about the moon
His shadow his flute and his
Cup of rice wine,
Then he sings for a while
And sleeps under a sky of stars
On a blanket of soft grass,

When he immigrated
To the American city
He writes differently now
About the moon
As the companionless
wanderer

The head of a murdered man
Rolling on the floor
Uncontained by a sack
A moon

Or some kind of a fluorescent
Truant
A silver circular corpse
Infected with AIDS,
That corpuscle confusing
And ovulating

Him, spoon feeding
Her with so much longing
Date-rape drug, where she howls like
A bitch

To the moon in that great American
City

I just like it here,
The moon is still my
Moon child
my fair lady of the night

In all shining glory
Above the mango tree,

In this little country..

Submitted: Monday, February 16, 2009
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