Post by linm on Jan 25, 2019 13:24:59 GMT -5
Blood Moon
Why should I go out
in the freezing night, in
the apogee
of midnight, to see
the moon over
the dark world looking
as it does, a white
button in the black
shirt of night?
Why should I stand at the end
of the driveway head knocked
back, swaying a bit in
slippers, to hold a vigil for
the moon. I’ve seen
the moon,
and tonight, I see it slung
low and overblown, square
in the frame of
the skylight above my desk.
I am waiting, everyone is
sleeping, the oaks creak
bitterly in a polar wind.
I am waiting, rolled back
from my table, laptop dim, sage
commentary thus
deflected. We sit for a long
long time, the moon
and I and nobody
else, and I admire
its busting brightness,
how it looks
like a great white
plate spun up,
defying gravy
and grease,
a spanking new
disc from the likes
of Per Se.
And as predicted, upon
this bare pate
monkly and droll, dribbles
the shadow. What to make
of it: the furze
of wolf, a crematorian
mist, and officially earth’s lightless
half thrown up like graywater.
The moon gets bored, she
taps her laptop and sees
reports are coming in. Simultaneity
defied: In Paris, Roberta: Alors!
Completion swings above
the Eiffel Tower. MudieT in Cornwall blames
the obfuscating
skies on Brexit. Aye, it’s a gammon
moon, a joker in West Meath
puts up and the moderator deletes
the next three comments.
Eating a raw tortilla here
in Seville to honor
the moon, Lolo, in his kitchen
and chasing it with a shot
of vodka. Anan Ratangarhan
in London posts Mandala
in four dimensions. JustfFacks bleats
Ah Wooooooo!
The charts now show my mid-
Atlantic creeping to the center
of the cone of shadow. So I break
and go outside, clear out
to the road, where I‘m apart
y of one. Domiciles
extinguished all around, the pop
ulace sleeping off its every day.
My breath particulates (moonlight
not quite fully expunged) and flies
off. A pink
is seeping on to my
vision. Rash,
blood rust, wolf bait.
The rational mind disbelieves
omens: at 12:12 the peak of the earth’s
crooked awakening thrown
up sky like a shadow puppet
begins to withdraw. It’s all about
the weep of this very next
day dawning made weirdly
cosmic, where we are now.
Why should I go out
in the freezing night, in
the apogee
of midnight, to see
the moon over
the dark world looking
as it does, a white
button in the black
shirt of night?
Why should I stand at the end
of the driveway head knocked
back, swaying a bit in
slippers, to hold a vigil for
the moon. I’ve seen
the moon,
and tonight, I see it slung
low and overblown, square
in the frame of
the skylight above my desk.
I am waiting, everyone is
sleeping, the oaks creak
bitterly in a polar wind.
I am waiting, rolled back
from my table, laptop dim, sage
commentary thus
deflected. We sit for a long
long time, the moon
and I and nobody
else, and I admire
its busting brightness,
how it looks
like a great white
plate spun up,
defying gravy
and grease,
a spanking new
disc from the likes
of Per Se.
And as predicted, upon
this bare pate
monkly and droll, dribbles
the shadow. What to make
of it: the furze
of wolf, a crematorian
mist, and officially earth’s lightless
half thrown up like graywater.
The moon gets bored, she
taps her laptop and sees
reports are coming in. Simultaneity
defied: In Paris, Roberta: Alors!
Completion swings above
the Eiffel Tower. MudieT in Cornwall blames
the obfuscating
skies on Brexit. Aye, it’s a gammon
moon, a joker in West Meath
puts up and the moderator deletes
the next three comments.
Eating a raw tortilla here
in Seville to honor
the moon, Lolo, in his kitchen
and chasing it with a shot
of vodka. Anan Ratangarhan
in London posts Mandala
in four dimensions. JustfFacks bleats
Ah Wooooooo!
The charts now show my mid-
Atlantic creeping to the center
of the cone of shadow. So I break
and go outside, clear out
to the road, where I‘m apart
y of one. Domiciles
extinguished all around, the pop
ulace sleeping off its every day.
My breath particulates (moonlight
not quite fully expunged) and flies
off. A pink
is seeping on to my
vision. Rash,
blood rust, wolf bait.
The rational mind disbelieves
omens: at 12:12 the peak of the earth’s
crooked awakening thrown
up sky like a shadow puppet
begins to withdraw. It’s all about
the weep of this very next
day dawning made weirdly
cosmic, where we are now.
