It looks like a greenhouse planted on the moon.
Their hovercraft-capsule (Buzz A. & Bros.).
Their mission, to bring back some cheese
coagulated from the Milky Way. Done.
A-o.k. Forty years of meteor showers later
a little karaoke is in order. Sing me that one
(Moon River, wider than a mile...). Croon,
my jejune, moony minstrel... soon. Très
charmante. I heard it on the radio
in white and black (a generation or two
ago). Surfing rocks. But you have to
set trowel to soil, Tin Man, in Silverado –
and pan to stream – if you want to find
Goldie the streamfed gold-digger. Your
riverine Sheba (wise guy) : sure-whistlin'
willow thing. Guitars in the distance;
the sultry scent of lilacs, memories...
lost memories. All that weedy, wayward
humble wordlessness. Those awkward
Ariadne-nobodies, castaways in a leeward
breeze (lethal bull-snort of a Cockaigne-
sport). Silence is the frame for speech
and the rustling of an almond branch
fosters our governmental Gopher-drone,
Al Frankenstein (comedian and Common
Man). Six moons ago he won the crown
– now we have set this Archimedean
angle to the ring (he will not play buffoon).
500 and 10 and 5... the riddle of the moon
still plays across our solar plexus (rational-
irrational) like some black-hearted melancholy
poem... Jubilee the Founders' mean (procession).