The Man On the Moon

November 25, 2009
You sit on the hard ground, sinking ever so slightly into its crumbly surface. The earth is the light yellow-green color of a glow-in-the-dark something when it’s sitting in the light, faintly transparent and almost white. You reach beside you and dig your fingers into the ground. It crumbles and breaks around your fingers. It has the almost-moistness of sand or dough, and it holds its shape when you press it with your palm, molding complacently into hollows and craters. You press a bit between your fingers and it crushes into grains, sticking to your skin and falling onto your lap.
You raise your full hand to your mouth and bite off a chunk. It’s slimy but somehow dry in your mouth. It coats your tongue with a dry residue that seems to stick and fill every little indent. You chew it gummily, gnashing your teeth together, uncaring about propriety as there is no one else about. It tastes like the mildest of cheddars or mozzarellas, definitely cheese-like but too flavorless to be easily categorized. You swallow the lump in one gulp. It sticks in your throat and leaves an aftertaste in your mouth. You green happily and there are whitish yellow-green pieces in your teeth. You lick them away greedily.
Your fingers dig into the surface again, resting there, wiggling and caressing the terrain. You lay back and feel it sift sandily about you, firm but soft. You suppress the urge to wave your limbs in an angelic format. You turn your head to sniff at the ground. It smells like pure nothingness. You lick at the terrain. Small crumbs stick to your tongue and, when you sit up, you can see the dark, wet mark on the nearly colorless surface.
You stair up at the sky, so very black. The deepest black. No one else has ever seen anything this all consumingly black. You do not know where the light comes from, but it sits like an atmosphere around your planet, your pleasure, both your home and your food supply. You remove your fingers from the ground to lick them clean and then tunnel them back into the crust. You lean back on your hands, legs outstretched, and stare up into the blackness. Or perhaps you are staring down, down at the people below, the planet that dances with you continually. It is blue and white and looks cold and foreign. You do not like it.
It sends out people to put their metal poles into your precious ground, to leaves their dirty footprints, to taint. You can see where the beautiful earth crumbles, bubbling up around the metal apparatus that juts up ward, displaying a cloth with a design in red, blue, and white. You do not care about those colors. You want them gone. This is your planet, yours. They do not belong here. They belong down on their giant blue monstrosity where they can walk and claim and pollute as they please. You will stay where you are, where you have always been. Here on this planet, on this moon. You know your place. They do not know theirs. They are just men as you are just man. The man on the moon.

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