I am in love with the Moon. 

Some call me a lunatic;

my lunar tick resembles a wolf howl,

a primal hunger well below higher thought. 

I monitor her cycles,

transfixed by her luminescence. 

My eyes form cataracts to

mimic her milky presence;

the way she dances across darkened skies

mesmerizes me every night.

She graced me with her presence

once.  I normally see her

in my dreams, but I got lucky –

for three whole months,

she was absent from her celestial throne. 

The world around us plunged into chaos,

but our sphere of influence

was heavenly.  Bodies colliding,

our breaths shared a rhythm

the tides would envy. 

I lost track of time

gazing deep into her every night;

her full phase charged my beating heart,

its tempo crashing heavier than oceans

upon the surf.

Slowly, the skies began howling

for the High Priestess – the sea

needed a master, and Gaia

missed her mother. 

I could tell she didn’t want

to leave me; I noticed my own desperation

reflected on her pale surface. 

Her ascension was beautiful to behold,

but did little to relieve the weight in my chest.

Maybe our romance couldn’t last forever –

I am still in love with the Moon. 

I will always be a lunatic,

whose howls shake the stars

held within my own verse. 

I quiver like the restless ocean,

awaiting my true love’s return

with my toes dipping into the surf.

Cire Luey Freemind

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Not used to line breaks, but I think this one turned out OK.



by Jeph Johnson


I asked a religious friend of mine, who is a big fan of Pearl Jam, and is always trying to convince Eddie Vetter abortion is wrong,


(so are condoms, by the way)


how many 33-year old virgins he knew.


I was trying to argue that being a devoted Christian for ten years made me some sort of weird freakish outcast.


No one believes me anyway, and then when I try to explain myself I get smirks of disbelief.


I was told by my church-going buddies (who'd lost their virginity in high school while "backsliding") that some girl will really appreciate it some day.


Now all I meet are single mothers, divorcee's and seventeen-year-old's who are more experienced than I am.


...and they could care less!


I asked him again: 


"How many 33-year-old virgins do you know of?" 


He smiled.


I had forgotten he was Catholic.


Author's Notes/Comments: 

1999, 2017


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