Tick season again
A tawny blimp swells
On my dog’s little skull
Big with alien blood.
ItŐs always tick season
On my brain.
Telemarketers, politicos, and religiomaniacs
vampirating my hardearned
painful realizations.
But I tick, too,
Those Emersons and Bachs
And Becketts
Worth sucking their bloodsouls
And getting fat in the head.
DonŐt tweeze me off the worldsoul
And ask me to thrive on my own
Blood like a cultural cannibal
Eating itself into self-reliance.
©2008 Thomas Moore
