From Earth to the Moon

I. To Begin With

All American guns arm

missing limbed mechanics,

grand gunners they are,

with metal scalps,

hooked handed messengers of war.

Bowie knives, arm chairs, whiskey, cotton,

tobacco, whale oil, apple pie eating

death savants.

II. As the Story Goes

The mechanisms of their

old hall clock, through the years, stored

all the tears of the last war

to lube the silver springs, so

as the time passes light, no

other watches will be so late,

as such policy demands, so

such is war. Yet this year we declare death,

doom unto the seas

of the moon, without a ploy,

we wait for slow victory.

The moon - a celestial

body, idle and wicked,

revolving, engaging in

revelries of sin, distilled

slowly in rays of morose

light. Not so close to declare

thunderous applause to war

fought with no more than air.

III. Drought

One last earnest yet elegant epitaph

to the foulest of my fears,

granted to me with a fogged grace:

Oh, monstrous moon,

I am opened to you and oppressed.

Remove me from rough reality,

senile and sour in insecurity,

tattered, torn,

I am vile in my vanity,

by letting the moon

wear a smile of red wine,

where I should be standing.