Another poem.*

Here, the moon is not a face,
but a one-winged bird.
Just like heaven
is not a place,
but a concept.

("No. It's a song."
The hipster speaks, but
there is no place for him.)

What can I do for you?
Spread unhappiness like
margarine or legs or sheets
or rumors.

I can chase you
down the hill with death dreams.

I would smile if
he weren't here,
beating from inside.
The great
di(cta)[rec]tor.

Subliminals come
dripping out my eyes
like lactating virgin marys.

The moon is not cheese;
it is paneer.


*I'm am slightly miffed that I have to include this disclaimer, but please do not take this poem literally and then inundate me with emails expressing your concern for my well-being. This is simply a poem.