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We Faked the Moon Landing
she was the first man on the moon.
circa 69.
doesn’t matter.
men and women both
look alike
in a space suit.
I remember
studio being so cold it
may as well been
the fucking
middle of the milky way.
gargantuan fixtures
dropped angel light.
my lens catching
the helmet’s glare.
and feeling entirely
too small to hold it.
kubrick screamed in my face
because
mr. aldrin couldn’t make set.
they slapped his outfit on her.
my unnamed star.
and what you all see
is not what we see.
make no mistake,
the woman a prop
under the timeless beauty
of human sweat.
a gaze-voided
labor.
the camera,
that black brick
hiding my wanting.
that suit
keeping her.
containing
long locks.
I watched her
offer water
to the
rocket-painting guy.
unmasked,
her lips curving
into friendliness.
and how could anyone
believe this is real.
america we sold
as russia nudging sidelong
turned herself away.
how could anyone buy
we shot above the stratosphere?
when it is so much simpler
to toil under the darkness
of the day.
©GriffPoetry
circa 69.
doesn’t matter.
men and women both
look alike
in a space suit.
I remember
studio being so cold it
may as well been
the fucking
middle of the milky way.
gargantuan fixtures
dropped angel light.
my lens catching
the helmet’s glare.
and feeling entirely
too small to hold it.
kubrick screamed in my face
because
mr. aldrin couldn’t make set.
they slapped his outfit on her.
my unnamed star.
and what you all see
is not what we see.
make no mistake,
the woman a prop
under the timeless beauty
of human sweat.
a gaze-voided
labor.
the camera,
that black brick
hiding my wanting.
that suit
keeping her.
containing
long locks.
I watched her
offer water
to the
rocket-painting guy.
unmasked,
her lips curving
into friendliness.
and how could anyone
believe this is real.
america we sold
as russia nudging sidelong
turned herself away.
how could anyone buy
we shot above the stratosphere?
when it is so much simpler
to toil under the darkness
of the day.
©GriffPoetry
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