A Savage Moth Attacks the Moon

It is noontime and a savage moth is attacking the moon

garbling and whorling its ears

fears swathed in angry aching red veins and

gasping thrombolisms

the savage moth attacks the moon

it is biting great cheek-fulls of white matter

spewing them out across the bleak black sky

dark dark trying to smear the dark with white moon matter

frothing at the core, the moon is

seams falling to thread dripping down to earth, the moon is

and people everywhere in many pieces grasp, the dead bodies

dead from war and famine and violent weapon edgery grasp

grasp up for these strings aching down from the

dying moon

from the moth’s edged mouth

and the craving hand-held spoon

the people grab up with tired fingers

with hands in pieces that

reach for these strings

they think these are balloon strings

but can’t see the heady air-o-sphere

through the black atmo-sphere

the atmosphere with two faces

a planetary embolism

we all are in pieces reaching up

i am on a different earth,

but there you are, there is everyone else

on the ground

cawing

up at the sky

the strings are thin and wispy but solid

destruction, war, and death have tamed the earth but

lost that balance against function into fiction

factions

fractals

baking the earth’s core in its eggshell horizon until

this core begins to hatch

and from the center,

all pieces surrounding the core spew off into space

and the earth’s center now void of all action and possibility and fingers and genitals and animals

becomes

a new moon

the old moon is now nothing but strings hanging down

from the attack of the savage moth

which implodes itself, from being so full of moon

and spews out the rest of the moon from its stomach

and now there is only

new moon from old earth core

and dead grasping fingers, yours, straining up toward what you thought

was a far off static point

and billions of these fingers, approximately ten for each person that used to be living

the new moon

trembles

as another savage moth

attacks

and the earth below, this next earth,

on which i sit writing

on top of the highest mountain

looking over forests and locusts;

i see the moth’s wings through a skin-flap in the sky

my earth, it is the only one left,

is beginning to bake