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?
|Lescaret Reading 500 Words about the Moon|
Sept 18, 2013