Hey, Future
is that you / in the moment /
a Buddhist might love / enough to hyperventilate /
or the day’s dizzy spin /of 24 hours /
kicking joy / to the curbs / of chaos /
blessed by Hallmark’s / square stoic faces /
wearing X’s / like Charlie’s girls / I love /
the day ending / at the grave /of my throat /
gagging on punishment’s / need for praise /
for allowing like you have / the word gay in school /
to become / a banned book / in Florida /
how long / before beauty / plots its revenge /
for singing / the children away/ make me a rag /
of poisonous fumes / listen to the suffering fade
I Heard Music
sadly praised
for how the body’s latest song,
a ballad softly howling,
arranged the lips
with minor chords, like
flowers on the train’s cold tracks,
crushed for needing light
the way a shark does flesh.
What we fail to own
eats us and our unsung lives.
Trembling, it was
obvious more notes
were breaking through.
You wrapped your hands
around my neck.
You called me your guitar.
Daniel Edward Moore lives in Washington on Whidbey Island. His poems have appeared in Western Humanities Review, Southern Humanities Review and others. His work is forthcoming in The Meadow, The Chiron Review, Delta Poetry Review, Book of Matches and Drunk Monkeys. He is also an editor for The Rockvale Review. His book, “Waxing the Dents,” is available from Brick Road Poetry Press.