hula hoop moon

we got play guns from
the bus stop shack where
see-through men lived. 
aimed at the hole in the moon & fired. 
as a child i was a collector of orbits.
i walked in circles around the house.
widened the circles until i was
a planet x. until i was on a highway 
in the middle of a horrible downpour.
i couldn't even see where
to pull over. all i noticed where
great huge hula hoops that i managed
to keep driving through. i don't
look for portals. they find me.
i am never certain where they take me.
maybe i have slipped through dozens
of little purple lives. my favorite 
rings are not the ones on my fingers
or the ones around a big celestial daddy,
instead i crave mushroom rings to stand
inside of. halos in medieval paintings. they always
look like the saint could just reach up
& pluck the thing from their skull.
take a wild bite. i am watching the openings 
shrink. sometimes i can't even get out
of my own front door. i buy a hula hoop
online & have it delivered via the forgettable 
kinds of violence. it is pink & it is the exact
same one that used to hang on the wall
of our must-smelling garage. 
it is brittle now & incapable 
of making my holy. i don't care
about stuff like that anymore. i just want
to reach through some kind of maw. 
the other side, loud & wonderous. 
i go through as many times as i can.
until the moon is a pin prick. until 
all the stars have shut their eyes & shadows
take my halos beneath their tongue.