In these parts,

we mainline moonglow.

It’s what we do.

It’s our thing.

We shoot moonglow

directly into our veins

and our blood becomes gospel

as we start to sing hallelujah

and glory-be—

We dream daytime dreams

of phoenixes burning colors

into cakes of riot and ash.

All it takes is a lunatic and a match,

as they say.

We hear galaxies crashing in our veins,

and glittering cosmos becomes us

in relation to the dark matter,

and zeitgeist,

we duly absorb and digest.

We are not right in the head,

we can’t be, but we are heart-ready,

growing gardens to seize our own wilds,

and we longer seek indirect or oblique guidance—

We mainline moonglow

until it is coming out of our ears

and asses,

snaking blonde rivulets

down our cheekbones,

until our eyes

have been burned clean through

in becoming lighthouses

emitting white-hot particles of mercy

into a world

that wonders

where on earth

all that wattage

coming from.