inside the beginning

the backside of the sun is flat;

flat as a manhole cover.

not like the back-side of the Moon

which is all the same stuff: rocks

and dust as if my grandfather’s

buried there.

we can’t romance under the sun.

we can’t bring back rocks from the sun

as if that was something to be achieved.

he said: “come up to my place

to see my moon rocks”

too stupid to know the true

worth of etchings.

the sun doesn’t have a river to croon about.

the sun is agitated.

it doesn’t have to be pleasant.

it’s not blue.

it’s over my house and over Miami

at the same time.

the sun keeps its mouth shut

at the ticket booth of the drive-in.

it’s smart. it wants to see what’s playing

but it has no money, so..

it gets in for free.

it hides inside the trunk of my car

with a couple of stool pigeons

from the old country.

there’s a man in the sun.

today it’s me.