My moon is not my honeymoon.
The real truth about me
is not the wine-induced truth
(98 points) but
instead something dusty in the magazine aisle
with my name as the title
only one issue put out—
couldn’t sell enough ads.
Stay the night with me, Moon.
Vonnegut breathed the air of Dresden and saw you.
You and the city looked the same.
A man wearing sunglasses
and a very orange cap
looked at it once but put it down.
Was he my father?
Questions, yes, questions.
There will be five minutes for questions.
Help, Freud.
Sometimes a banana is just a banana.
Even when it sells for a dollar
in this convenient store of me before sleep,
six times the price if you bought it online.
I keep thinking about that Venetian
boat ride I never went on, the one
where I’m drinking wine and mingling
with people from all over the world.
As I lie here and tune in Denver
Another night
Another night
And memoirs don’t inspire.
The Writing of John B. Randall 