PM Mooney

PM Mooney has been writing most of his life.  He is a poet, a distance runner, and a college professor.  His
literary interests include Raymond Queneau, Marcel Proust, and Henry Miller.  Recently, he has undergone a
creative rebirth and a poetic explosion.    He is madly in love with a woman who lives a continent away.  She
has taught him that time and space are largely illusions. He believes all poems are love poems.  His poetry
has appeared in Burst and Ampersand.  http://pmmooney.blogspot.com/

Traveler

You're riding out another delay
on an industrial sofa with steel arms
in whatever-the-hell airport
somewhere in Florida
Rumor has it, I'm home--
when the fuck am I not, City Mouse?
This country one [all puns intended]
man of lawn and pool and rotting gazebo
sits with you now in the airport
petting your hair, talking you to slumber
as he has before in a state just north
as he will again even as he reaches
for his tea, enjoys a breeze
and feels the sun burning western skies.

This is Just to Tell You


I'd say it a hundred, no a thousand times.
If you needed to hear it, hell if you wanted to hear it
whatever it is, I would work my lips,
move my jaw, my tongue and form those words.
You don't need to pretend you don't understand
to hear it; fuck, you can hear it until my throat is dry
my tongue swollen and my lips cracked.
Although my forehead looks prehistoric,
I want you to know I am a communicator
not some Neanderthal who grunts and moans.
If you could sit across from me now
look into my earthy eyes rimmed by autumn yellow,
you would never doubt it, but since you're not,
let me write:  I want to hold you in the dark
and listen to your sleeping breath come and go;
I want to spend afternoons beneath umbrellas
and mornings interlocked as one
until we are too old to remember our names
or the words of this poem.