Escape from the Intergalactic Lunar Prison
Four suns hang in an alien sky.
Suddenly it’s Thursday.
My heart feels transplanted,
feels like four hearts humping
away on a desert floor, and as if
I hadn’t surrendered enough this week
I go to the bar. Obviously my nemesis
there thwarts me at karaoke, seals me
forever in the intergalactic lunar prison.
So I learn to meditate, to long
for myself so completely I vanish.
This whole town weighs less
than a bird’s heartbeat anyway:
no one will care what the snow plows
carve on the wrong side of the moon.
Either I’ve run out of things to conquer
or they’ve run away from me.
Perhaps I am not fit for murky water.
I am a cruel governor craving
tropical getaways, solutions clear
as a boiled ocean. Most of all I want
to box the shark with hammers for brains
to death in a seafloor cage.
Nowadays everything I police scatters
to plankton, outnumbering the stars.
Nowadays I fight the skin cells
I lose each night, tiny aboriginals
shoving me out of bed, shadows
making puppets of my weighty gestures.
Nathaniel Duggan used to sell mattresses, now he is unemployed. He lives in Maine.