Dragged Fighting From His Tomb

The thief left it behind—

the moon

At the window.

   - Ryōkan

Moon Fragment

by Everette Maddox

A man squats by the railroad tracks tonight
eating a moon fragment: not cheese
at all, but a honeydew melon. His hands
are fuzzy. A train roars past. In the
lighted windows men and women stand
with pewter cups raised. Tea slops out.
Then it is dark again. Moon-eaters have
no time for such foolishness. The silence
is not absolute, though, because the world’s
longest accordion, the world’s longest
musical expansion bridge, is playing
somewhere. I am up in my office
watching the glitter of my last cigar sail
out the window, over the shrubbery, down
into the darkness where summer is
ending. I keep office hours at night so
nobody comes around to bother me. Not even
you. The moon comes around, though. I want to
drag it down and hand it to you and say, “Here,
this is lovely and useless and it cost me
a lot of trouble. You can tie it up on
the river behind your house, and go down to
look at it whenever you like.” The trouble is,
you don’t want it tied up, and you are
right. There is no new problem. Eight hundred
years ago a man heads home from the
Fair, pushing a wheelbarrow full of real
moon pies. For ten years he has been
stealing wheelbarrows, and nobody even
suspects. Well, what is all this? you
want to know. Right again. I could
say I don’t know myself because the evidence
is not all in, never will be. I could say it’s
the unfinished moon poem I’ve always wanted
to almost write. Well, what is it all about? you
ask. What does it mean? You have me
there. It means, whatever this is between
you and me, I hope it’s not over, and good-by.

"It was at a moment when time, demented and wild, breaks away from the treadmill of events and like an escaping vagabond runs shouting across the fields. Then the summer grows out of control, spreads at all points all over space with a wild impetus, doubling and trebling itself into an unknown, lunatic dimension."

—Bruno Schultz

- Jean Rhys

- Jean Rhys



"Thank heaven I never was sent to school,
To be flogged into following the style of a fool.”

—William Blake

"comfort me" - sparklehorse

with rocks in my dress
and smoke in my hair
I walked into a lake
to get some sleep down in there

won’t you come to comfort me?

with minnows in my belly
and deep in my veins
the breath-robbing lightning
was making diamonds of rain

won’t you come to comfort me?

dreamed I was born on a mountain on the moon
Where nothing grows or ever rots
I dreamed that I had me a daughter
who was magnificent as a horse

won’t you come to comfort me?

Saint Michael
Master of Belmonte
(Spanish, Aragon, active ca. 1460-90)

Saint Michael

Master of Belmonte

(Spanish, Aragon, active ca. 1460-90)