Moon Sequence

I.

Last night Luna rose

over our Eastern Sea

like no human’s ever seen.

Only one porthole view

through deathly clouds

incubating the Great Egg Harbor.

Luna rose a perfect circle

tossed by Myron, now in suspension.

Remnants of Theia reflected

 in alien orange,

brighter than Sol

(whose rays provide color

still, but not the same).

As lightning strikes purpled

the Atlantic structures underneath

the ocean rose with Luna, rose ominous,

pillars and pyramids stood naked.

Our nation, in three century utero, collapsed

off the coast of New Jersey. Another failed experiment,

another corrupted civilization left to liquid, then to ash.

II.

Fear, survival instincts in full swing

while operating machinery speeding

south on a bowed bridge looking

east as Luna rose. Death

embodied in the sky

explosions, natural explosions

in natural grandeur white death.

Luna rose as she never has

as illusions nullified fear was reality

at its clearest. Luna rose and she never will

in similar form, life and nothing in one moment.

The storm consumed the atmosphere. Consumed itself.

Atoms vacuumed into oblivion.

Bovine humans munched cheeseburgers

while driving through dark energy warping

vapid brains. Magenta tissue bled

out sentience. Luna rose.

III.

These humans were not scared

out of sheer stupidity. They felt safe

in their machines. Congested asphalt artery,

nine at night, Friday, June 13th, 2014.

Luna rose in proof of their ignorance.

She devoured particles in purgatorial drift,

planet Earth. Space shuddered Terra

dark matter pulsed into minds

people felt frightened

inexplicably. Immediate fear of blackness.

Animals froze in abeyance obeying nature.

Humanity continued to destroy,

to feign solutions, to pop pills,

to disdain their immune system

to ignore their self-inflicted wounds.

All the while precedents loomed

in the past. They never realized

they inhabited houses of Masonic stone.

Let alone understood that the Scottish Rite’s

preeminent child would fall faster

than those deemed lesser.

That the child’s scrapes would fester.

IV.

Luna rose on in spite,

out of spite of America.

Oxygen sucked out of air.

This time the fire.

Although pharaohs chose the stars

which killed their enslaved, unwanted brothers and sisters.

As the empire fell in pre-meditated fashion, the elite escaped

in Russian rockets. No more humans

needed for sustenance of the few.

No longer human humans would float

past Luna, and harvest her gray helium 3 tears.

Luna rose no longer over Earth

for there were no humans

left to see. Luna rose in witness

and condemned yet knew she could do nothing;

she vowed never to forget

until everything collapsed again. Luna rose

until the end. And as her visage faded

from the collective memory of all sentient existence,

Luna rose again, somewhere,

since death could never die.

the state of things

breathing musty air

unsustainable humans

leaves without voices

Inanimate

as you leak long and slow

worrying about rupture

all hunched over wincing

drunk off pain

you take a break from monotony

it’s raining outside right now

but that doesn’t matter what matters

is pain staring back at you thru a mirror

the absence of soul and meaning

knowing that if you could see forever

that there would be an infinite number of you

although artificial

as the cold fluid supposedly water touches

your fingers suddenly stopping somehow automatically

when you should stop feeling

if only you’d stop feeling

In the Future

when you die

or are found

dy                ing

 

there will be an expert

a digital historian

poking at your retina

browsing through the light

roaming about your thoughts

but

only if you’re special

you see because they’ll see the history

of your mind

the collective human web

browsing history

scrolling down the info

of your spine

cause what’s it all for if not for

documenting a life transferred

from space to space-less-ness

then when we all scroll down

your paper skin pages

you’ll be immortal

if only for a little while

The Pen as an Archeological Oddity

we are unable inexpressible   /           repression filled          high-(non)-functional             humans

there’s a change in perception

this abrupt       shift                in worlds has happened before,        but it’s drastic now

the way the pen rests on a table,       horizontally

beckoning, enticing our former species

it’s not that we have broken hands but broken minds

they’re see-through in order to view                                                 ink deplete gradually

the pen, an instrument of serenity                 in that even the                       motion

the gyration of the wrist

causes tiny muscles to stretch and constrict

possessed by the pen

yet all of that is only memory            now, perhaps that feeling of oneness

with the inanimate is              just a ploy of our desire,                     our half-artificial brains

lusting primitivism again

or rather hands                       that beckon                             to be of use

we are not       glorifying a utilitarian                                                 object

applying          ink to page     via gravity

nothing less yet           there’s something more about this that cannot be expressed

when we see   the pen in our new minds       physicality isn’t there

more   like a   medium

                                                to

                                                            be