God you look beautiful from here.
I see you peeking out, your blues and greens winking at me
beneath the white-gray blankets. A hint of India, a twist of
Tunisia, Italy's boot piercing the cloud-curtain like a
strippers', taunting, taunting . . .
I see the moon and the moon sees me . . .
You see me as well, don't you, behind your telescopes—at
least you see my domain, a shiny pimple rising from an
acne-cratered face, ready to burst, ready to dissolve, ready to
die. No, not ready to die, never ready. Just resigned.
One small step for Man, one giant leap . . .
They lied to us, they lied to us, liar liar pants on fire,
those dirty bastard soothsayers with their quicksilver tongues,
their lightning-struck eyes, their shaggy grey heads nodding
away like ancient lions.
June, spoon, honeymoon . . .
And here I sit in a bubble of foul air among the flagrant
ghosts of the dead, watching my home spin by over my head and
under my feet and everywhere I can't won't be, everywhere I once
was, everywhere my memories are free to tramp over soil and
street and sweet cement.
Moonstruck . . .
You'll be a hero they said you'll be a pioneer
and they calculated time and space and matter with the tools of
scientists and alchemists, strings of mathematical magic spells
conjuring greenspace and airproduction and
necessitiesoflife, calling up the djinns borne from Mother
Biosphere and Father Dyson to create a perfect facsimile of life
in a lifeless place. They just needed a facsimile of a lifelike
man to complete the spell of illusion.
They say it's only a paper moon . . . .
Call me Caretaker. Call me Ishmael, I don't care, just
call me. What's going on down there, why do I see sparks
and sparks and sparks, why are fireflies dancing across the
shrouded face of Home, why do they fly so fast? My memories
spark and die, burn up in the atmosphere as they try to make
their way back to you. My own little fireflies, impotent,
wingless, shot down, forgotten.
Once in a blue moon . . .
The trees are dying. The dome is still sealed, no
miniscule holes from passing meteoritites, no sir, this is good
old American know-how with some Japanese hanky-panky thrown in.
But the green is not greener on the other side, friends and
neighbors, it's pretty damned yellow and brown if you ask me.
Maybe this rocky dusty orb is sucking at their tender tendrils,
rutting with their roots, birthing cold gray children under a
blanket of cosmic dust, who knows, who knows? White-maned
bastards need not answer.
There's something wrong with the air, not enough oxygen,
not enough life for this lifeless thing I am.
There's a moon out tonight . . .
Oh my oh my oh my I see a girl outside the dome white as
moonbeams and black as the darkside deep as the craters tall as
the mountains of the moon la luna a la lune and she
beckons to me come down come down below the surface below the
poison air I will show you a world beneath the crust, beneath
the grinning green-cheese face you squat on, there's a whole
world underneath and I cry and find a diamond-tipped pick
left behind by one of the dead two dead three dead four, we were
seven right I thought we were seven but it's only me I could be
wrong so I hit the dome one-three-seven times and she laughs and
beckons and her face is the face I left the face of my love love
love and I cry and howl and beg her for forgiveness because I
should be down there with her not up here with her
I'm so confused so sick so sorry and the fireflies are
everywhere . . .
I see the Earth and the Earth sees . . .
Wrong wrong wrong nothing is wrong everything's wrong the
ground has opened up before me the moon-men are coming we missed
them somehow with our pit stops our scans our science and
now this beetle digs its way up and opens its wings to fly fly
where? nowhere to go bug! and from beneath its carapace
something wriggles out god I need air she's back darling loved
one and she kisses me with her lips and then a mask and I
breathe the flavor of her breath and ignore the canned taste of
compressed oxygen, because I was wrong, so very very wrong . . .
Shoot the moon . . .
. . . because the fireflies are here, and they shine shine
shine for me . . .
About the Author:
Trimm's scribblings have somehow found their way onto
the pages of numerous magazines, including Realms of
Fantasy, Strange Horizons, Postscripts,
Weird Tales, Black Gate, and the
Polyphony anthology series. He lives near Austin
Texas, where he sweats a lot and prays for snow.