Moonlight for Malcom
And the moon will walk on sideways. Ever the siddler. Ever the stalker of night. A brand of owlish keen, wink-eyed and knowing. Illumined. Prophesying in frequencies and languages amissed. Night whispered. Muted. Vocal bored by noise and never care. Cack-cough sputterings of twitching things–asphyxeemees. A people squirmed and matted, blue faced and medal bearing–understanding smattered in pockets of existence, strung together in hot confidence, a terrained practice of blind diligence and closed knowledge impartment, spreading like spitted mashed potato in a rob beheaded pantyhose. La la la la forever comfortable in ourselves and distant of an encompassing hand that holds the atmosphere, that trickles life.
And then there’s mystery. There is unrestrained unknowing. All splayed and sleep-the-couch, the kettle blowing. Cattle lowing. Crick backa cannattacka spill a missle toeing.
Cuz we believe in big, big mass of must. In bang we trust. Spontaneous assumption. Like sparks with minds and endgames of their own. Nothing to combat the evil here. Cuz we believe. Cuz we believe in hot, hot cosmic dust. Just–
lee lee lee lee lee lee lee lee lee lee we believe. and lee lee lee lee lee lee lee lee lee lee lee we believe.
And we are the missing link. Pissing stink. Roll dead dover on the kissing brink. Come red rover to the mating rink.
Wipe the moon with one eye closed. And good goodnight. And good dispose.
“So, where do we go from here, Malcom?”
“I jump I jump I jump I jump I jump I jump I jump I jump!”