p u l l e d through — for Luke


for Luke on the eve of his 40th trip around the sun—

a communion of words—yours, mine and ours.

always, C.

p u l l e d  through

the first time

braided stream brush

chase the curves


lunchin’ offline

changing her shirt

changed his mind

I am here, you are there

cradled breath and phthalo moons

stepping stones, negotiable

if we meet in between

breath will come easier

death will seem further

we’ll stand suspended

on this bridge

for longer than it takes

to have a deep bath

or lunch with a friend

throw our keys in the river

laced windswept writhe and whistle ties

trace constellations grey-green eyes

my vision locked on an image

slim-hipped, him, slipped

behind the lens

you’re staring, brother

unbrother me, sister

one steady question lead us

from the slew of self

to catapult in raptured heightened views

stranded in shafts of summer light

pulling petals

and other states of grace I cannot name

I do not have your wings

as sound is spun

I am caught up


in the calisthenics of this ritual

listening for you

as if there were another word

hush, lady, hush

pleated sheet of canvas

kneel impatient at the bow

jesus, you’re not even blinking

and all I can think of

is the sound

of leather pulled fast

through denim loops

a one-way ticket to Pennsylvania

rapped iambic

wrapped in rapture

check her master checkered crafter

parachuting radiation

pounding-pulse anticipation

to kiss

such that outside eyes

are out

of operation

bowed-in Black majesty

craved bubbles rake

at the sway of soft brows

moving this way and that

woo a hot spoon

deep-set deep-blue

softest song, you

    what would that be like?

you’ve come


dancin’ the loveline

careful fingers reach up

watching you, watching me

tasting you, taste of me

ahy, ahy, ahy

sweet jesus

the sun explodes inside this room


third eyes press

like the pad

of sated panthers

tongues far from foreign

across the top of eight o’clock bells

heads cradled, content

beside a blue dragon

that Mona painted on the wall

our song

is perched in the corner

strumming fingers circle play

wend brimming hymn

admission to hidden selves

blue-green sunshine



an indelible image

leaning forward

blinded black

in acts

of consummation

stem bends, surrenders

every inch of skin

curves I could ski down

warring with my inhibitions

soft-lipped cloth ripped



Monday night’s

broad-shouldered partition

split petals calling

yet with lips, only lips

her tears like soft rain

anointing my face

your face now etched in every

double strand

the palm of that strong hand

balm on the small of my lower back

always pulling

when she lay her legs out on mine

wet petals

unbuckled and tumbling

as rocking rails

cross carriage eyes

far away and thrumming

she sounds like me

across and ocean

as the gods

gather a handful of flaxen sky

you’re running

with your green hat

folded in your hand

reaching I press my body

even closer to the dusk of it

my cup of Yin

softening and hardening

between your attic

and Morrison’s cafe

straddled bare and mirrored grey

scale the walls in rhythm they

stile pilfers thread and fabric

baggage left in London

five hundred thousand minutes

careen into this


just to clarify

just the one

fine-tipped shrine sipped

standing still and spinning

wholly held and had

by that British guy

button-fly rent, awry

kneeling as knot is knit

I’d still hike your hills and valleys

draped and naked

one hungry rung

after another

pull the oars

mouth in warm blue

the sutured moon

clad in scant cirrus

clings to her

night blinded visions

of you

a young monk with broken thumbs

love generously heroine

and as the clocks vanish beneath

I will remember

every day

outstretched upon the other

chalice lip-to-lip

the be-all meeting of mouths

as we are heaved

beyond the gates

of this brief ceiling


every minute that

we’ve won

© cs moon

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image by Nick Prater -- edited by C. Moon





I remember
the first

we won


an ocean

in a café
full of

the one


I remember
the first

we won

fell into
each other

fell out
of clock-time

on a platform
full of

at one


© 2016 C. Moon / L. Prater

image by Nick Prater– edited by C. Moon

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in my room



in my room

the image
in a cedar

on a narrow

a bed too soft
in all white

a portrait
of young eyes
February ducks

three grateful
perched on a
small concrete

we were both so fond of them

that easy
afternoon walk
your attic
and Morrison’s

a long time
gone now

held against
the stark gloom
of this
winter’s day

I still

have the picture
of you

in my room

© cs moon



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I have to
wonder why
all this time
I still find you
fat hands
rifling around
in these words
it isn’t
clear to me
if you
simply suffer
some form of
epic desperation
or if you’re
still looking
for the letters
that he penned
while lying
your crooked
groaning sky





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