I never learned
the secret delicious recipe
of making a poem
from moon, or the bluest
from any of my teachers.
It wasn’t their fault.
They might have regarded
the moon as something alien and distant,
something belonging to astronauts,
astrological envy, and lunatics,
or they might have forgotten
what it feels like to feel the moon
pulsing intimately like a wild epileptic ember
or radiant jumpy spider in their hearts, who knows?
But I sure am glad
that the moon, reigning freely
outside the constraints and jurisdiction
of politics, religion and academia,
directly requests of me, in no uncertain terms—
Make good and inspired use of me, and cook something up,
a verse or two, a haiku, nursery rhyme, whatever,
just burn me into being, and listen closely
to how the stars applaud by winking.
In other words (sometimes the moon rambled on),
everything is an echo of praise and music,
so play me, man, like I’m your homeboy or dancing queen,
play me oh so intimately, without hesitation or reserve,
and our nights together will give your dreams a whole new twist
on living beyond mortal claims