Poet's Moon

 
I could tell from the swing of my balls
the moon was almost gone
dead in the sky to leave me fussing
over a pile of jumbled sentences
heaps of words rotting in a dried tear

There's no accounting for madness
its degree may never be rationalized
to satisfy the requirements of sanity
or cement the building blocks of a world
but it may sweep up and swarm all over a writer
imperiously swallowing heart and soul

She's an eccentric Bavarian woman
wearing only pink
drowning in a sea of chiffon
before plunging herself into black
playing dead for a week
then pretending nothing at all happened
on the night of her return

I'm used to it now--
because it happens a lot