Poetry: Lane Mochow

Pink Moon in Scorpio 
You Wouldn't Understand
Anyway 
by Lane Mochow 

---

 Pink Moon in Scorpio
​
I count how many times
the moon yanks on her
trickling blondes

it may only be two,
but the tunnel divides himself,
unlit

by viscose cellophane or irradiated glass

last night, I forgot her face.

instead, the black
is now split by oil lamp

one spotlit
steel toed boot at a time
hovering above
a miner's floorboards.

I choose to clutch
hope's burlap,
holding
right is right
and left is nothing
but a hopeless chimera,
its body but
a mutilated yellow jacket
who stings until
light rolls the sky.

I suppose I will never
truly, unapologetically
hold my own fate.

​You Wouldn't Understand Anyway

The jiving flute performer
leaves my ears at a grimace;
spittle and stomping drives
an unholy countenance.
Sparse crowd applause,
No standing ovation.


When you hear my poems,
do not expect
wincing, grinding, shattering
of long held ideals,
didactic melodies
on who to be or how to live.


I am no Savior's right hand man.
I wear no robes, and when I shout
it's to the bellowing of the yellow submarine
that glides through the sedan speakers.


I am no philosopher
memorialized in granite.
I am a man of dirt and steel,
whose ink stains are derived
from passion and
dollar store ballpoint pen.


I am no Creator of Earth and Sky,
the one I met was a creep, anyway.


The wild haired may deride,
the slicked back may swallow saliva,
But don't you worry, baby,
This poem is not for you.


No.
When I write my poems,
all I hope for is to be
the flute that strikes with a thunderclap
instead of a shrug,
to be the sparse clap
of the alone and truly lonely.


This poem is not for you, baby,
it's for me.

​
Bio:
Lane Mochow is the author of the chapbook, "Ink." He won first place in the 2018 Tennessee Magazine Poet's Playground in the 19-22 category. He has contributed poetry reviews at Sacred Chickens. 

---