obligatory moon poem

I have nothing for the moon,
that fake fat gray-bright sky hog
of a dead rock. But I'll tell you
of a cheap wine drunk
that ended in a small town hoosgow
where a sneak thief befriended me
and a grizzled trustee
gave me a knife to cut whoever
might try to touch me
then asked if he could. You
can cut me, he said.

One time we all drank
cough syrup then went out
on a shrimp boat at midnight.
We might make some money.
Out there in the fresh four days.
Girls had to pee by hanging
over the side, mooning the sea.
We didn't catch much.
The morning after we docked
we went to clean up the boat
and found it sunk. I'd call that
good luck. Fun was easy,
money was hard, which saved us
from bad drugs. We were immortal
like all fools and the moon,
busy claiming all the mystique
and romance in the world,
left us alone.