One Moon One Baby by Dan Raphael

Babies too big in the moon with mom tattooing gps across skin-time in ancient script

to identify, indemnify against a transposed background of architecture

archaeologizing vases we cant make yet, teeth biting through wire with persistent questions

as charging arguments extol the raisin rain, extra virgin rain, rain we don’t want

talking to the car ready to find a road like caramel anchovies stirred in milk

without animal origin—milk from magazines, milk from hoofless mountains


An oaken chest now my chest not drawers but pigeon holes switching places

a mechanized 3D chess board without kings or bishops; with botanists, lawyers and djs,

we don’t know how the pieces move, when the board unfolds, gps for gypsys

where motor homes solar winds turn a field into a market—

market intelligence, market humor, i subscribe with a genome, the interest is mutation


We’ll be out of bread tomorrow when the bakery’s on sabbatical, when the day doesn’t change

just because of night when nothing closes. we sleep in our work places careful not to drift

onto conveyors, into robot tentacles suggesting three elbows per limb, spherical wrists

so i can write on my own hand piercing the flesh with solder so bright and promising:

give us this day our daily voltage, resistance defines character, i won’t leap till i can glide


Ask the moon questions and watch its eyes, lost like craters, dust instead of tears escapes

before evaporating all the structural members beneath the eons of paint, detritus,

almosts & maybes. the technology to take a picture in the same place once a month

for a thousand years, incompatible with our viewers–rampant compression, pixel elations,

something fresh for breakfast with the wings too milk-damp to more than buzz & shimmer.


The challenge of vertical, coffee like magma, soil receiving seeds encrypting their own tails

as the sun chases its off-spring moon enrapt with long-leashed freedom breaking away the bucket

we were saving to shower when the sun gets so naked even our bones begin to sweat—

we couldn’t touch ourselves, hand slipping through, fingers like ripe fruit the flies volunteer

to flesh us, the mosquitoes ready to change our fluids & vacuum our interiors for 19.99


Who would want a baby they couldn’t name, a baby we had to change countries to live with,

have a tongue transplant to learn the language programmed in the baby’s third eye,

baby running before it could hold a fork, refusing to wear any color but black,

only drinking when its underwater, baby who won’t sleep when the moon’s above

no matter how intense the cloud cover or daylight, how deep we bury the baby

in concentric libraries as the whole village tells their stories the baby transcribes

in overcooked cereal transforming the torrent of post-industrial formula into sculptural gardens

we run through ecstatically shredding our skin with the multi-barbed stamens

of the baby’s galactic tear-down and remodel—if you lived in this baby you’d be where now,

behind the wheel of this one-owner baby still under warranty, Stevie singing

“maybe your baby’s done/  made some/  other plans,”

the moon staying full just to see who’ll show up—electrician,  demolition,

bill collector, midwife. moon shunting all the sun throws to ignite its own cherry center

to release this adolescent star massaging the earth with ripe gravitic fingers


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