Demented underneath the moon, I watch
The street conduct electric sparks tonight,
These cars, their headlights, energy in flight–
Skyscrapers precarious as men in heels.
This night, it seems more glamorous than real.
Demented underneath the moon, around
Another corner, ten men beat the pan
Of shiny, pooling blood another man
Has made for them, his whole life’s work: these men
Identified another queer. The moon
Demented underneath fleeting stars,
Demented, shining on speeding cars,
Dissolves upon my tongue. It tastes like force.
It tastes like blood, saliva, teeth. I’d curse,
But I’m demented. Underneath the moon,
The moonlight makes perfection out of me.
The men are beating on their drum. Their drums
Are poverty and ignorance, so painfully
Made lucid. Once, I really saw the moon.
It hurt. And underneath it all the world
Was busy, furious, bent to the loom.
— By Rafael Campo