Red Night Sky

Red Night Sky
by Ariel Mo


Normally at 8:53 it would be perfectly
safe to assume that the sun has set and darkness has rolled
in from the warm Pacific and I’d be in the house at
the keyboard whose varying shades of black and whitethat is
black and white and no moreare comfortingly lit by the
chandelier that always swings precariously when she
is out of the house and I am alone and hear random
bangs and creaks from the not-so-old woodjust like how right now
the neighbours’ back door keeps swinging back and forth despite the
receding winds that have lost momentum and power since
yesterday when they were the focus of everything here
and speaking of which I can’t seem to find that thread of me
that wasn’t always bound to this white thing just waiting for
the flash of yellow to tell me you’re here and close to me
kind of but not really just enough to pretend to sneeze
and peek at his dry-grass hair outside my window with its
wait why’s he in the garden?

                                             Anyway, he’s gone now and
really might as well be not even part of this windstorm
of seagulls and draining batteries that seems to attack
whenever the bell rings for youor some version of you
although last night was utterly silent and dark and for
a moment I foolishly wondered if I’d be able
to see stars but that was probably way too poetic
“All the stars that he might have used to steer his ship have gone
out” to where you are, where you are, where you are echoing
in my mind like a perfect four-bar phrase wearing a nice
fedora rather like the one I always wished I owned
except what use would I have for a fedora?

                                                                   Better
then to own the sky and everything above and under
it including the invasive plants or great white North Pole
that is only a mythof courseI still can’t believe that
nobody knew that but you until me but then again
I’ve some pretty glaring gaps of knowledge too like how to
insert foot in mouth or bake success from a recipe.

The bouncing beat of his backward bass reminds me of the
head-banging that I still need to do and dates I still need
to figure out how to deal with before this date too fades
away into another and another and so on
til all the mathematically precise subjects in Bach
can’t pull me back from this abyss of swirling self-righteous
epigraphs and Chicken-Soup-For-The-Goddamn-Souls-We-Have
that is to say That-We-Don’t-Really-Have because balance
is too hard and takes too much time and effort and really
I’d rather take an afternoon that bleeds into unseen
sunsets and bright night skies full of pinks and reds and random
patches of blue that don’t really belong anywhere but
look nice anyway so if the aesthetic is right then
don’t worry, right? (“Minimalistic” crap aside, of course.)