poem about psychosis...needs to be shaped up and shipped out, but here it goes.

Drifting moon of white flame,

You fell into the middle of the street

And were no bigger than a dime.

I placed you in my pocket

Along with a cat's eye and albatross feather

And tried to barter my way across

The country with such things that there

Are no prices for.  Even with a smile

And a joke, I could not ride on the

Long white trucks streaking past

In snorts of exhaust, I could not

Trade truth for a turkey sandwich

Or beauty for a room.  The papers

Talked of war and the papers talked

Of sport, the papers talked of criminals

And the papers talked of books speaking

Of radio talking about television,

But I could not find the sadness

Of our misers with their Starbucks coffee

And grim track suits jogging to the office,

I could not find

The thousand Mercedes'

That wouldn't stop for me

On the rain-swept freeway

And I could not find the beautician

Who cares more for her cats

Than the man on the sidewalk

Rustling along the walls of a bank

Without any shoes.

There were the restaurants

That threw out their food

And in dumpsters I found

A scorpion encased in stained glass,

a case of boutonnières,

and a fallen star gasping with light

That no one had cared to see die.

But what troubled me most

Was the voice of the confused;

Merry, gay, glad, and really

Quite mad:

Telling their child that

The Army is a good career

That March marks the end

Of the fiscal year

That in reality, there is nothing

To fear; with a pleasant smile

And a simple flit,

"…and that's how son, we get down to it."

In Portland the bus stopped for me

Because I walked in front of it

And I returned home

To a lavender bath and velvet clothes

Sideways math and catty notes.

The flame of the moon had expired,

All I had was a feather and an eye

And with what better to fly

Then with a traveled sight;

No food or car,

But at least a glimpse of a fallen light.