The Moon is the Moon Whether We Call it That or Not
Your phone is a portal, a portal to Hell. Look up. Get slapped in the face by the moon.
With a mass about 1/80th the size of the earth, the moon exposes its buttocks to the crowd.
Wiser to nature, humans of the past bestowed each month’s full moon a name. Pink Moon tonight, aka Egg Moon, aka Fish Moon, aka Moon of the Sprouting Grass.
Every life seems a distant celestial body—unknowable splotches in medias res.
Lunation just means lunar month—the time between two successive syzygies.
Learning the names of things fills me with a feeling of profusion, like the eyes receive when they brim with a full moon.
Everybody knows about eclipses, but what about occultations? What about transits?
Moving from West to East in about 29 ½ days, the moon moons around in reverie, abstracted.
I am in awe of the facial architecture of the Man in the Moon. His bundle of thorn-twigs. His accompanying dog.
Chani Nicholas says of this evening’s full moon: “Pluto brings us under the surface of things and here is where we are asked to dwell right now.”
You can’t have hope without futility, I guess.
“I have never known the police of any country to show an interest in lyric poetry as such,” said Langston Hughes. “But when poems stop talking about the moon and begin to mention poverty, trade unions, color lines, and colonies, somebody tells the police.”
We see what we have been trained to look for. Look! Twilight falls like pale blue chalk.
Carpe noctem. Seize the night.
Across the street, across the sea. It’s key to have something to look forward to. Tonight, when it’s 11:11, look at the clock and make a wish.
After it rises, the moon becomes a medal: a prize we receive for completing the day. But only silver. We can always do better.
A Talisman Attracts, an Amulet Repels
Humanity’s been on a bit of a winless streak.
Who here believes in lucky charms? A symbol to ward. A warden to guard.
To predict a good harvest. To protect against disease.
A fetish object that objects against spells. A phylactery. A scapular. An image of an eye. A text that tells a protective secret.
A coin or a clover for wealth and health.
The Immaculate Heart of Mary above my own wary heart.
“Hail Holy Queen” is the most melodramatic prayer, and therefore my favorite: Mother of mercy! Our Life, our sweetness, and our hope! To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve, to thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears…
I’ve never gotten over my childhood disappointment in finding out that rosaries are not for wearing.
I long to make a pledge to a saint or way of life. I long to complete a rite. Would sackcloth and fasting put anything right?
I haven’t got faith but I’ve got an aesthetic.
Evil walks among us on physical feet, and half the country is like, “Hell yeah.”
Saint Michael the Archangel defeating Lucifer is a mood. Quis ut Deus? Who is like God?
How long has it been since I’ve seen any latte art in person? I’d ask for a portrait of St. Cecilia, my confirmation name. I chose her because she loved music and died so hard.
Talisman derives from telos as in fulfillment, completion. In the end, it’s the devotion of the wearer, not the object itself, that confers the power.
How to become a no-stats all-star, the player on the team whose presence alone causes magical outcomes?
I am ready to be initiated into the mysteries.
Hump Day Has Always Been a Terrible Nickname
Today is a Wednesday. What is a Wednesday.
Every year April makes fools of us all.
Father Time pours his cornucopia.
The big dick-twirling contest is coming right up. I mean, “the election.”
Justice in its purest form is not available to us.
There are more CEOs named John than there are CEOs who are women.
My condo is 1000 square feet. Pretty decent. What more do I need? I can only sleep in one bed.
Still, I look at pictures of real estate online.
Those with villas ought to share them with the villaless. Those who are villains ought to be less villainous.
What does it mean to be between Tuesday and Thursday?
John Steinbeck wrote a sequel to Cannery Row and called it Sweet Thursday, a day he defined as falling between Lousy Wednesday and Waiting Friday. I don’t know if it’s worth reading, though.
Someone please recommend me some recommendations.
Living is a process of moving crisis to crisis.
I need a commendation. The littlest niceness goes the longest way.
Kathleen Rooney is a founding editor of Rose Metal Press, a nonprofit publisher of literary work in hybrid genres, as well as a founding member of Poems While You Wait. Her most recent books include the novel Lillian Boxfish Takes a Walk (St. Martin’s Press, 2017) and The Listening Room: A Novel of Georgette and Loulou Magritte (Spork Press, 2018). Her World War I novel Cher Ami and Major Whittlesey was published by Penguin in August, and her criticism appears in The New York Times Magazine, The Poetry Foundation website, The Chicago Tribune, The Brooklyn Rail, The Los Angeles Review of Books, and elsewhere. She lives in Chicago.