GOLDBERG

L'Art Brut
-Beckian Fritz Goldberg

The moon tonight is a lit canoe shrouded in a curl of mist.
The men at the bar aren't buying this, the moon is a housewife's

fingernail. Drink to the moon as the arc of a woman on top. All
shit about the moon is shit.

The moon is the light pelvis of a girl dusted of earth. Forensic
moon. Moon of the Observer.

I am sorry to see it, night after night, scar in the blue skin of the desert.
Oh yes. The day that is so blue and the night so underblue.

The men at the bar aren't buying. They want to hear about the moon's tits.
They were, I say, pink top hats spun upon the alps.

Looks more like a canoe, they say, with me and Dog. The sky is the shore, they say.
And Dog clambers asaintly up.