Full Moon-

It is a full moon again.
Don't tell me there is nothing to a full moon.
If there is nothing to the full moon
why does it pull at me so?
Why do the emotions
fill up
as if they were laddled out
of a silver cauldren
in the inky sky?
The images
of the black road
of the forest green wilderness
of the cold dark lake
are illuminated so boldly
that I ache from the contrast.
I believe in old wives tales
in fact
every twenty-eight days
I believe in nothing else.

I confided in a workman on the job
the other day
that I never walk under ladders
and , I told him,
I never get out on my wifes side of the bed.
These are, I thought,
the only two superstitions
that I believe in.
But sitting here
In the electro-magnetic spin
of the lunar gyroscope
it is quite obvious
there are other superstitious powers
that are, perhaps,
more compelling.
I believe in the pull.
I believe in the dark, cold side
of the unseeable universe.
I believe in free will
especially when
it is noticably interupted
by powerlessness.
I believe in crackling energy
and lay-wasted lethergy
in the same man
in the same moment
in the same place
unseeable and unknowable
by those all around him.

I believe the moon,
when it's full,
is wired to our souls
and it is broadcasting
with a high frequency.
in a wide band
and it covers me with a blanket
of power
of hate and lust and indecision
and panic and illogic.
Full, full , full
and as the phases
are drawn and quartered
the loosened grip
darkens.