I closed my eyes and the world kept on spinning,
rolling waves between my ears,
wet grass beneath my head.
A voice pierced the sloppy fog, a sound I yearned to follow to a soft bed by an open window.
Eyes opened, I saw the Moon staring back,
in clear bright focus, above the swirling putrid nausea.
I shouted, "You may call me Caesar, the Moon!
You may call me lord of a funny sounding thing.
While I curl up in a ball, sleeping off defeat, reeking of excess,
you may sing my song to the night.
You may sing to every beautiful person
walking down the street alone, box of wheat thins in their hand, aching in their head, aching in their liver.
You may tell everyone that tonight I kiss the ground,
but tomorrow I will rise to eat a miserable breakfast
at one in the afternoon, sitting alone in the cafeteria,
about to fall into my bowl of cheerios and granola.
But I will have risen, just the same, the Moon!
I will run, I will walk, and I will stumble,
and sometimes I'll even fall over in a parking lot and get put in the bed of a stranger's pick-up truck
but I will keep moving, just the same!
You may call me Caesar, the Moon!
You may tell your friends and family,
on this night, the Demons ate my chocolate, they browned my butter,
but when I can stand again, I'll get back to a soft bed by an open window
and share my wheat-thins with the right person."
_______________________________________
basically, I've had better weekends, but you work with what you have
so, there you go.
