The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress

Ambition can be poison,
jealousy: a shit-smeared
dead-end.

I wish I was moving
or had this job
or had that audition
or was thinner
or it was summer
or knew this person
or wrote more
or got more respect
or was in a prestigious Masters program destined for unavoidable success
or didn't have to commute
or was revered
or had a couch with corresponding flat screen TV
or got more love on Instagram
or was published on HuffPost or McSweeney's or Paris Review
or just somewhere that would get more hits

Garbage thoughts.

Moments can be ripe for plucking
-savory and succulent-
if the past can stay behind
and the future, a loving distance.