WASTED NIGHT
By Franz Douskey
Every act is a substitute
for, let's say, love.
I don't know about you,
but I'd rather make love
than anything else,
even more than writing this,
but the woman I love is
pissed. Something about
money and the I.R.S.
I especially like cold nights,
although sun-streamed afternoons
can bring moments you read
about in hymnals.
I regret each wasted night,
knowing there is a time limit
to every life, that I'm least
alive when money, or the arsenal
of nuclear weapons, the everyday
destruction, and the lack of love
show up on every newscast.
Stop what you're doing.
There is not much time left.
Of all the ways, love.
Accept no substitutes.
MOON'S HANGOVER
By Franz Douskey
I can no longer look
at the earth, the way
it tilts because we try
to control each other's lives,
talking about nothing in
loving detail under doomed
stars while disasters hover.
Such oppression makes
me dizzy. With wars going
on each day, the smell of
flint and ozone rises.
Even at this late date,
we think anything goes.
Unimportant and hollow, like
the bellow of a colicky cow
against a remote landscape,
terror rushes in like hellfire.
We praise the dead, curse
the darkness, search for love,
kiss everyone's hill and gully
until daybreak, and then some.
This is like what...wolves
returning across the red snow
with humn books in their teeth.