Sleepless in New Orleans

The moon has set
and the fucking Pleiades
and I have to be on a train at seven o’clock this morning
but here I am
writing poetry under the covers
as if I am twelve.

I have to tell you that last June
in the front row of a Fringe performance
of Euripides’ Hippolytos
I accepted a blood red cherry from the manicured hand
of a drag queen Aphrodite.
I thought “Take, eat…”
and my soul said “You have always been good to me,
Foam-born Peleia
but seriously? Have you noticed I am menopausal
and suited as things are?
You really would surprise me.”

Wouldn’t you think I’d know better?

Clearly, this is her votive city
she must get tired of the pap she is offered
the same masks over and over.

We are from different shores
of the same planet
and speak the same language
and I am here.
I do not ask anything
but let’s go to Venice
and Constantinople
and keep talking the stars into a new sky
where maybe words reach.

February 25th 2013