Introduction by George Petros to
When The Moon Came Up From Hiding
A Book of Poetry by Michael Andros

Here’s a collection of poems by Michael Andros. While intended for a general audience, the poems subliminally seduce specific females and even a few guys. You know who you are! If you, dear reader, stand among the lucky ones whose brains light up a little brighter while reading lines like “… freedom to be caged, and bound to be free …” then this here book is for you.

Let’s put this poet in perspective. Imagine an alternate universe where a big late-night talk-show host tries to get a few laughs at Michael’s expense with lines like, “So, Mike, in your poem ‘Those Secrets Now’ it’s no secret that the cookies aren’t intended for a grown-up,” and Michael says, “They’re not intended for you either, Dave” or “Jay” or “Conan” or whoever, and the audience roars with laughter that turns into applause, and Michael rises from his chair and launches into a poem, stretching his arms heavenward, hands held Christ-like, and the audience, now weeping, crawls past astonished security guards and technicians, and he starts unzipping his trousers, and, well, you know the rest. His poetry has that kind of effect on people.

Although Michael Andros has yet to take his rightful place upon the pantheon of great poets, the reader will detect murmurs of timelessness and universal appeal within his finely-wrought verse. And he’s definitely on a fast-track trajectory! All he has to do is crack open his latest book of poems and belt one out, and boy do folks fall to their knees in a hurry. For example, he might go, “I wouldn’t have you walk, I would have you on your belly, writhing, a languorous, needful snake …” and Presto! a sea of submissive souls stretches before him. Again, his poetry has that kind of effect on people.

Consider this line: “Whisper your words and let them fall, they don’t matter anymore.” What does he mean? Is that a cue for chicks to commence babbling in wet excitement, speaking in obscene tongues, while they get ready for unspeakable acts? Or is it a challenge to the status quo, a way of saying “shut up” to those who talk too much?

In these poems there’s nothing ear-splitting or hard-hitting. No dirty words. No in-your-face confrontational posturing. Rather, we’re treated to visions of good vibes and satisfied customers. How sweetly the reader travels from one lovely metaphor to the next, from one scene of bliss to yet another, while sirens and sluts submit to reason and good girls and boys have a chance to be bad.

Hey you whose husbands sleep while you spell out your fantasies in some chat room, or you who dream of discipline while the workday drags on, or you who has seen and done it all — when Michael says, “Strip away those layers of cloth that keep you from a new world, they hamper your soul, be free,” you just melt. Right?

Michael, shower us with pleasure. Distract us from dirt. Make us think we’re immortal and our orgasms eternal. Make us forget yesterday. Please write more, more poems into which we can sink our fangs. More! We anxiously await your next impulse. Your next utterance. Your next word of love. We’ve got cash or a credit card in one hand and our future in the other. We reserved a place on our bookcase just for you. Now get crankin’!


George Petros
Brooklyn, March 2012