Bad Moon Rising

The rainfall that fell in Texas during the month of May spread enough water to cover the state of Delaware ten times over.

Californians stare drooling eyed at these thundering saviors across the mountains and the desert. The high land Texans scoffed and jumped through 24 hours news cycle sprinklers with flash pan grins.

The low land, trailer park, stilt-housed, sperry-sporting, rust-grinned, humble hubris Texans watched the bad moon rise again like a flash in a pan before the muddy water skies rushed over it once again. They heard the rivers overflowing; boisterous bursting and blasting through blocks and bags, once bleating brooks become brazen behemoths, bellowing down dirt roads. The thunder gave a banshee shriek. The rain gave a phalanx charge. Rotten roofs vomited the torrent atop their folk and the chamber pot and pans orchestra around them, collecting dirges.

A stray man clutches his wife when she joins him at the porch, for it is the only roof that can sustain the tempest. They watch together, closer than any atomic force, as darkness explodes down the dirt road and the lightning flashes to show the demonic face of an angry god posing as Poseidon. With a single hand on reason, the woman drags her husband indoors. They bolt the door. They await the muddied horseman.

In Telangala and Andhra Pradesh, over a thousand Indians have perished at the bad moon mirage twisting in the heat waves round their throats, eating their souls.

Like a flood, how does one anticipate and aid a hundred eighteen degree suffocation? They are two human decimations, reaching hands for each other’s poison vial hoping to appease their own, like wildfires clashing against each other down the spine of California.  It’s best not to go out.

Outside, the water strikes the small simple struggling house. It overrides it, it gnarls beneath it and the voices of rage and ruin chant the death macabre rhythm on the devil tritone of a home being uprooted. The couple is separated, wrenched by inertia across the floor, into cabinets and into tables and into glass. Their blood feeds the frenzy outside. It is this crying cracking, killer Kracken cacophony, crashing and calling for calamity, for catastrophe, at the whim of a chance implausibility, of a distant Father. The water’s roar is all they hear in the blindness of fury.

The roar of the water, though, holds little to the fire, consuming trucks and tree monoliths, in its warpath, Alexander to the city Tyre. The Indians, starving and collapsing, were the ones to squelch empire, but the bad moon, immortal eye that takes your sight in a flash, has bested all empires. When it rises, it takes the tide with it above the highest triumph, all triumph, from the pioneer to the wizards sitting on a silicon babel.

The eye meets the outskirts of Houston, a low rent Atlantis. It surfaces for a brief instant, in-between clouded smirks. With the tremolo of lightning, it cackles. Beneath it, in its gaze, the end is a dissemination of wood and hopes across the marshes, of displaced and struggling. Cars plummet down the dirt road to forgotten pits. Children bawl, clutching at Maslow in their mothers. Loved ones scatter across the water and the wind blows them listlessly. Blood mixes with tears. The end is coming soon.

The moon falls again.

The Pope released a statement on the climate. He sees Lisbon earthquakes and Roman fires in hot flash dreams. The remaining three quarters of the world have yet to release a statement.

The end is coming soon.


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