Interpretive Dance for the New Moon
There are so many to choose from, people I mean.
And then there are all the abstainers fasting themselves
out of a chance with the lunch lady. Her sweaty civic duty
sausage fingers shoveling out mashed potatoes and waiting
on rings. The ballet is silly because I prefer to dance by myself;
an interpretive dance for the new moon even though I can't
dance and I don't even remember the old moon. Not too nostalgic
which is fine with me, but then why keep a diary or a wristwatch
for that matter? It's milkshake economics best I can tell, so busy
pasteurizing the milk that they forget the cow entirely. I graze
as well as I dance which is to say I forget to eat and the lunch lady
is out of the job. I hear they're hiring at Columbia, but you have
to type 30, 000 piles a nonsense a minute and be scandal-free.
And if that seems draconian, you can always work the docks.
It is a shared misery down there, most democratic. I can't
remember the last time I saw a ship come in that didn't belong
in a bottle. There are so many to choose from that I have
forgotten how to pick.