a photograph of the moon

every poem is about the moon in that every poem is about the earth & the moon is a part of the earth—a dry dead part but still part—ergo it follows that every poem is an ocean because every ocean is a part of the earth & every part of the earth is part of the moon & every ocean is the moon

i mean

that's just logic: every ocean is the moon

you know, like a photograph,
like Barthes once said: there are three things to say

                               about the subject
                              of a photograph:

                                                            he will die
                                                            he is dying
                                                            he is dead

ergo every photo is the living-dying-dead
ergo every photo is the moon is a poem is the ocean is the living-dying-dead

**

when i'm sleepy & lost on the subway
i'll try to find the moon


beneath New York City

no-one is sleeping, just burrowing around with perpetual open-eyes,
god, where is the moon & where is the ocean?

when i'm on the Greyhound back to Philadelphia,
i'll try to find the moon

somewhere on the Jersey Turnpike

everyone is asleep outside the city limits
god, here is the moon & here is the ocean

**

i keep saying the word actually

i roll it around in my mouth
like a jawbreaker

a little sugarmoon
sweet & lingering

                              & meaningless

**

it is dark outside but the moon keeps reflecting daylight
from the other side of the earth

**

i keep saying the word sueño

i spill it over my lips
like a too-big gulp of water

it runs over my chest
i dream of a sleep

                              like Barthes once said: bursting with legibility

**

the moon is always asleep in the ocean,
waiting to pull up the blanket of water

waiting to pull all the words over our heads & drown us

i want to ask you to take a picture of the living-dying-dead, but there isn't anything that could freeze an ocean (& i hear the earth keeps heating up & up & up)

we'll burn to death before too long
beneath the glow of the moon,
beneath the weight of an ocean,
beneath the bodies of our words

& when we do,

                              when we sleep,

                              sueño, sueño, sueño


- p.e. garcia (from Barrelhouse Magazine)

***