The Moon At Day

By Roland    Avatar

I am walking with my black dog through impossible three o’clock summer heat.
She looks to me for a rallying cry, but I am looking at the moon hung three ham-hands in the sky.
I bend my thoughts to it, and again below the surface an iris fumes in the lithe-matte gloom.

We are only breathing together in near quietness.
The air we inhale having been so methodically conditioned by an American automobile, assembled in Michigan burns us regardless.
I am faintly aware of a jovial man on the radio who, for reasons unknown (nefarious perhaps), has been, for some time now, imploring me to ‘shake it like a Polaroid picture’ all good graces, I am subconsciously refusing to do so.
But I fumbled. Heedlessly did I lob noises over deep-rutted battle lines.
And did my words knife though golden swords of sunlight that saber the spaces in which we exist?

Kayla pours over a multitude of holes in the earth.
Of the voids, she cares not. Upon investigation, there is no food here.
I see that a devilish thing has thieved my last Nilla Wafer, and deliberately pulled a membranous sheath over the gently sloped face. I further posit that he craftily smoothed its surface with some, perhaps, inter-dimensional players club card (rendered useless, the spunk of the magstrip depleted some time ago).
I guess he’d then spit on the flat side, and affix it to this benign, ridiculous blue blanket, loosely tethered to invisible spires wafting our wares to thin places, over charging meadows, long since gagged, choked, bereft of voice, where they set themselves to oxidize on those fantastic wavering walls.
I see it is anchored, but it looks unstable.
I know this will fall, and when it does, it will fall hard.
But I’m tired. Tired from fixing my gaze.
I muster another glance, and regard the image of a rabbit. His soft purple veins swim in sweet milky sinew.

Radio man still gushing. This time over Beyoncé’s and Lucy Liu’s.
I’m staring at how sheaths from the sun are tirelessly stabbing at your earthen skin.
The inspection reveals the absence of lines. And I claim one long sweep of the hand for myself, and sit in idle wonder at how your presence negates the passage of time.
I observed words slung at you, their frenetic fingers searching, jabbing, clipping. The way I used to amuse the root of your neck on more playful days. They become pronounced in bold clarity. Perfected, and dripping with vitriol.
Two gargantuan celestial bodies who just learned to scream that day. With one foot down, I stand crippled, lamenting the horror at having found you, and lost you in that way.
And do jagged words lay upon you where they gnaw, nibble, and hold sway?
I ask because I beg them to grow dim, but they’ve yet to go away.

Tonight whilst spilling through the dark, I won’t need to look to see the rabbit is just a face.

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This Poems Story

This poem is describing a man walking a dog, caught between daydreams, and memories of the past that haunt us. And some words cannot be taken back.