Act I
There is a piano on the moon, and Ramona with expert hands is
playing it.
There is a piano on the moon, and Ramona with her hair down is
lounging on it.
There is a piano on the moon, and Ramona with a big bat is
hitting it.
There is a piano on the moon.
Ramona, old enough to be able to count her birthdays on both hands, has realized by this point that she has a life ahead of her, and she is revolting. The cheesy surface, cratered from toddlers taking little fistfuls of it, cradles Ramona as she cradles her bat.
But the music sounds like rubbing your finger pads on the tip of a wine glass. Ramona’s fingers, producing the pulsing tones, slide from key to key, the vacuum blessing. There is a way to hear and it is this:
Is,
Is,
Is,
Is.
Ramona leans her weight on the wood of her bat following none of these and like a ballerina twirls around it, to come down slow as a feather gently leaping into the air. A shy pink feather, a shy little movement from tiptoe to tiptoe. The bat comes up—
Act II
The galaxies in your pocket have changed
You. If I were there I would reach inside, the hole in
The bottom, producing nothing but meteorites.
I put them in my mouth, roll them around
Up with a pair of tongs, put them in the salad.
Word salad—
() () ()
Lacing our fingers
Together like ribbons
That will come undone when we
Dangle on strings in the night sky—
Man in the moon waving with a
Cupped hand—
Me in the moon killing deer for
Sport—
You in the moon, ripping apart the
Act III
Ramona’s pet brother is a wolf named Dog.
Ramona’s pet brother diligently sits as she, around herself,
destroys everything.
Ramona’s pet brother diligently sits as she sets fire to the vacuum.
Ramona’s pet brother has three eyes.
What does Beethoven sound like at twenty-one thousand feet?
Cluck Cluck Cluck Cluck
Cluck
Cluck
Cluck
Dog that anything is being played is unaware. Hearing Ramona bash in the piano, his ear twitches sideways. No way it’s the fourth. The third one? The second one.
Dog is glad he invented his body. Dog is glad he has a sister, is able to. Dog tilts his snout upward, has a few sniffs. The splinters of wood float nearby, caught in the orbit of the moon so very suddenly. Ramona regardless of this does not stop.
Act IV
Cow. It’s a sweet
Meat. Pummeling it with
A baseball bat, just like a
Tender eye searching for the
Cure to our luna—
Cy. What makes a mad
Man mad? What turns fun from fun
And into screaming matches and
Saturn’s choking rings?
() () ()
I will say this, at least:
The babiest of neptune’s moons tastes like
Charcoal paste, the kind
They hand fed me when I overdosed
