No storm comin’ just a crazy moon half bent and two thirds
full, yellowy like a jaundiced eye, a bruise, a banana peel promise dense in
the black hours of dreamy afterthought. Hanging above the wave lap and palm
rustle, hanging like an embarrassment, a taunt, out of reach and completely indecipherable.
La luna loca, ambiguous, a sea turtle’s gurgling death breath, fetid and morose
on an ocean of dark matter and galaxy dust, marauder of time and marker of
wave. Man in the moon, the moon shot, the fickle moon with a pitchfork and a
monocle, the harvest moon, the moonlight serenade, the moon and sixpence, the
moon like a porcelain suggestion of geometry, circular in disgrace. The waxing
moon, the waning moon, which is which? Half shafts of mad light sparkling on
wave shimmer. Catastrophes of cloud, gray gashes spectrally seeping across the
sky’s haughty banner of star gleam and depthless black. Pride swells in the
universe, a billion years’ accumulation of entitlement, the lie of God explodes
in the death of stars. Satiric moon, heartless moon, moon of disconcertion.
Only the moon to hold your hand. Only the moon to give cosmic sup to the
hopelessly weak. All other symbol and metaphor inadequate. The black shade of
slumber’s hour, black feathered silhouettes hanging in the wakening dawn sky.
What if the moon a giant clam? A cartoonish ribbed orb swallowing underwater
megalopolises? Basho’s moon, Kerouac’s moon, the tin cup moon in the kitchen
sink. The sit down moon, the moon that faced the dawn and shrugged, the moon
that spat bats in a fluttery flux of midnight coaxing. Eye in the soil of the
sky. Drain of fake infinity. Imposter. Powder puff deity in a timeless sphere.
The moon’s crusade. The moon’s quiet joke of permanence, Australopithecus
dreams of wild provender, emaciated harems waning in apocalyptic heather. There
is no freedom in ignorance, no enlightenment in loss. Heaven is an orifice.
Gravity hoodwinks the angels into delusions of grandiosity – the halo, the aura, the weightlessness!
- while mortality whispers like a curbside huckster promising the moon. The
moon is the sense that something has gone wrong. A sickle moon in the hands of
the Grim Reaper. The dark side of the moon. A total eclipse of the moon. The
moon has run away with the spoon. There is no moon but moon. The lark and the
squirrel and the midnight moon. No fool ever drank the moon. Only the moon
lives, destiny is a cold dark place with no oxygen. You cannot hide from the
moon. If only the moon would realize the holiness of spheres, the oddness of
orbs. If only to be carried away by the moon in a basket of thatch and regret,
of vestigial abasement before the All Knowing. You cannot run away from the
moon. The cow jumped over the moon. The moon ran away with the mortal spoon. Ah
but a woman’s reach should exceed her moon or what’s Heaven for?
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| Lescaret Reading 500 Words about the Moon Sept 18, 2013 |
