Conversations with the Moon (The Beginning of a New Day)

(This is a poem which I am not aware of anyone having ever read. When it was originally entered into the word processor of the day, the length of this piece was 20 pages. I posted it onto one of my blogs in 2006, but as far as I am aware, no one read it on that one either. With its sheer length, I dare venture to guess how few people will take the time to read this piece.

The original intent was to author a "poetic short story," but as I read over it tonight, or rather, this morning as it is now about 1:27 AM EST in East Tennessee, it has little poetic value and more of a smooth, "folksy" Southern colloquial vernacular heavily imparted within its prose. As the setting of this story is in apocalyptic New Orleans, Louisiana, I utilized the French language greatly with regards to the several of the major characters' last names, creating a sort of allegorical feel to this story. This piece was perhaps inspired on one-part Nathaniel Hawthorne, one-part William Shakespeare, and had I known much at all about this author, John Milton for his work in Paradise Lost. The motif pertaining to sin, particularly original sin, is derived from Hawthorne, while Shakespeare was drawn as the inspiration for the attempted prose. However, in having recently read a bit of John Milton, I can honestly say that the apocalyptic nature of this piece shortened, Southern U.S.-version of his masterpiece. In due time, I look forward to work more on re-arranging this story, further proofreading and revising, and hopefully fixing it to where it might be presentable enough for a publisher to put into print.)

Conversations with the Moon (The Beginning of a New Day)

By Jonathan Paul Henderson

08 December 2002 (Revised 04 October 2013)

(*= Old Man; **= The Moon; ***=The Devil)

*The Old Man walks into his apartment.

The Old Man:

It is a cold night. I am walking into my eighth-floor apartment after another hard day of work - 'twas just another day on the job.

And piercing down 'pon me is the moon, like he always does.

I oft wonder what Lupus has to say, or if he has anything to say.

After all, he does not have a mouth to use for speech, nor eyes for eyesight - and I do not know for certain if he has a brain -

But he is the quietest, most unassuming acquaintance I have, and I can always rest assure that I shall not be maligned in anyway by him, and that he shall always be around.

Somehow, despite the lack of apparent human characteristics, I feel confident that he is listening and understands everything that occurs.

He does, after all, shine his lunar effervescence over the roof tops of the world.

He is older than I, and I am of advanced age.

I have seen a lot of interesting occurrences in my lifetime, and I have oft made inquiries with the moon about the unexplained philosophies which grip our mores, our society, our values, and our world.

As a young child, I reached to the moon, believing that I was touching the face of God.

Some of the holiest people of our time are, in my opinion, those who have had the privilege of meeting his lunar majesty; you know, Armstrong, Aldrin, etc.

Going to the moon would be like a holy pilgrimage for me.

Maybe, in my post mortem, they will place my ashes on His face.

As I grab my Budweiser from the fridge, I begin to wonder how some of my neighbors round here are faring, which is a slight unusual for me to be reflecting so deeply at such an instant.

I walk outside onto my deck and look out 'pon the Crescent City's streets below me - N'Awluns is such a lovely ol' town, but it is downright obscene and wicked at points.

"Jack and Jill walk up a hill…."

Ol' venerable Moon, look at that lovely couple approaching the apartment building - 'tis Jack and Jill Purete.

So young; so vivacious.

They have their whole lives ahead of them of them, the whole world in the palms of their hands.

They're just starting out in life. They don't have a lot of money, but they're both really bright individuals; they'll make it.

'Tis individuals like they that shall permit the human race to proliferate and prosper in the future as they spawn future generations of the living.

And they do love each other.

All they really have is love.

Love is what makes the world go round, correct?

Well, not as much as needed.

But that's what God says.

Look, Moon. They are now inside their apartment; I hear their giggles, as they live next door to me.

I wonder what they will be doing… what they are doing now.

Are they making love, you s'pose?

They were just recently married beneath your lights on the Delta Queen, you know…'twas a really romantic affair.

They are truly a handsome couple.

One fit to be a king, the other a queen.

Could they be engaging in the act of procreation, the act of ultimate love?

Could they be blueprinting an heir to their thrown?

A prince or princess, perhaps?

Who knows?

But I'm sure they will eventually, if not sooner.

I remember so very clearly my youth. I was so exuberant, a wild lil' buck

much like Jack and Jill.

I was once married. She was so beautiful. Her name was Mary.

There was never anything more beautiful than the sight of her on our wedding day, wearing that flowing white dress, so long, so pure, so indicative of her love.

I remember the days we scrambled to earn a living, and then our children.

I love Mary. I still do, all these years after she passed on.

I wonder if she shook hands with you on the way to Heaven, ol' Moon.

I remember I was devastated… I questioned God's motives.

Yet, I remembered that Heaven is a better place than what we have on Earth.

The cancer made her miserable physically in her final days, but Heaven brought her a new kind of peace the likes of which she had never known before.

But I needn't say anything to you about this, ol' Moon. You've probably seen it all.

In fact, you've probably been one of God's two most firmly ensconced overseers of life throughout the span of time and history.

And I would dare say that you've seen very few people in your existence who were, and are, more pure, cleaner than Jack and Jill.

May they lead a long and blissful life, for they are just like a pair of flourishing wildflowers.

Perhaps they are preparing to sire a newborn prince or princess.

If only everyone could have such a fine pedigree as Jack and Jill from which to descend….

A sad man living a sad existence is a sad sight to see.

Do you hear that sound? The unmistakable sound of shattering glass? Krystallnacht?

Did you see a drunken vagrant traversing the streets in an intoxicated-drunken frenzy, so shiftlessly, so…I hesitate to say…hopelessly?

Are you, ol' Moon, ol' vigilant satellite, keeping abreast with the tumultuous life Of poor Edgar Ivrogne?

O! That troubled soul…poor troubled soul….

As legend round the Square has it, Edgar Ivrogne lost his wife to a long, arduous illness…the cancer, you know.

He was filled not only with tears of pain with her, or as Dylan Thomas might term it, "the dying of the light,"

But a lost sense of faith, for all of his faith rested within the warm confines of his wife's soul.

Let's not mistaken ourselves, ol' Moon; Mrs. Ivrogne did shed a great number of tears,

But her tears were of compassion and love and devotion to not just her husband, but to God Almighty Himself, for she was a lady of great strength, for she was a lady of great faith, knowing that He is the reason that all is right in the cosmic order of the world.

And how generous she was!

She did so much to help her fellow man, to assist those in conditions that are less than ideal, and how devoted she was to Edgar!

They apparently married at a very young age, and their love never waned.

You know more about this than I do, Moon.

They sired three children, one of which was unfortunately stillborn.

This devastated the couple, particularly Edgar, for he felt both his own pain and his wife's inner strife.

Yet, by clasping onto The Palms of The Lord, they both managed to pull through, to persevere through the tough times.

Edgar, however, must have held onto to her skirt.

Through the years, Edgar supported his family as a power brokerage partner with the unscrupulous Archibald V. Gourmand, and through this occupation, he obtained a vast personal wealth.

He was generous, with his wife's direction.

However, when Mrs. Ivrogne lost her battle with cancer, Edgar lost something, too.

He lost faith in the only beacon he personally possessed.

A plethora of poor business decisions left him a broken man financially, and he fell down, flat on his face and was taken advantage of by Mr. Gourmand.

Now, what is he? What money he had left was spent on hard liquor to keep his mind numb.

He is now homeless, and frankly, hopeless.

Mrs. Ivrogne had managed to shelter Edgar from the bottle's ravages due to excess, but now, nothing holds down The Devil as he slowly passes through Edgar's slowly-chapping systems.

If ever Mrs. Ivrogne had a great folly, ol' Moon, I say it was this: She allowed Edgar to become too dependent on her to be his life force.

Edgar was doomed from birth; he had a history of drinking heavily before he met his wife, and now the afore mentioned prophecies of eternity will converge upon him and damn him to hell.

The Counting House.

One would believe that at this "heure de la nuit," most individuals would be home with their families, enjoying a tasty dinner, some spirits, good times….

But Robert Souvaleur is just now exiting the confines of the black hole popularly known as Gourmand's 

Mortgage Company, the place where he toils as a lowly clerk.

It isn't uncommon to see the poor man wearing clothing that is threadbare, to notice the heavy purple bags drooping beneath his eyes, and yet, ol' Moon, I've never seen a more jolly man in all my years.

I can wake up in the mornings and see Robert walking to work, usually very early, whistling, "When the Saints Come Marching In," and of course, always smiling.

Everyday, every moment, must be like a parade for Robert.

He has a happy home life: a loving wife who is devoted in ways most dare not tarry; his children are the apples of his eye, and he always finds time to play ball with them in the streets despite the sheer exhaustion

he surely experiences.

O' Moon, you know there can be no purer form of love than this; it can't be wooed or bought.

More than the large fish ruling the sea, or, for that matter, the pontiff himself, in all his rich "pomp and circumstance" mumbo jumbo, relgioso empire (I say BLAH to all of that!), Mr. Souvaleur is the wealthiest man I know.

He is a great example of the compassion and demonstrability of His Word.

However, you can't say that about everybody, for look who trails Mr. Souvaleur….

The light you emit upon this wicked individual leaving his office in the wee night hours must surely singe the hairs of this monster like the vampire he is.

This is the man named Archibald V. Gourmand, a man of great monetary resources.

Never have I known a man with such a black heart, with such a bleak intent upon his fellow man, or with such a large head upon his shoulders crying for justice to be carried out upon one, as this individual.

With the resources he has, he could be a great help to the causes of mankind;

He could donate to churches and what not.

And funny I should mention that, because I knew his father down towards the end of his life (And when I was much younger), and I shall tell you, though I don't really need to, Moon, that he sired a son of similar physical stature and appearance, but nearly of a different colored feather.

You see, the senior Mr. Gourmand was a major charitable benefactor, an exemplary member of his church, and a man who would circle the moon (no pun intended) to help his fellow clients when, indeed, he could have, on several occasions, foreclosed mortgages.

However, all that changed after the senior's death. Archibald Gourmand is the total and

Complete antithesis of his father.

There is no telling how many individuals he has thrown out into the streets who could've used just a little bit of assistance.

This comes as a shock to me, considering the classy background in which he was raised.

But Archibald didn't always used to be this way.

Like his father and his grandfather and his great-grandfather before him, he would help within the sanctity of the the church; several times during Christmas, he served meals to the poor who would normally pillage the trash cans.

What triggered this change? That is something that perhaps only the sun, you and God know, Moon.

He hasn't donated money to his Parish in many, many years.

It's as if his heart has turned to stone.

And contrary to popular belief, not everybody in the "American Aristocracy" is so evil, so wicked, so greedy as he.

When he became engaged to a young, beautiful lady named Angelique, I thought he truly loved her.

But like everything else he touched ex post facto the point he inherited the company, she merely turned to gold in his eyes…and not for the better.

She realized his greed and abandoned the relationship, and as far as I know, no woman has attempted to enter into a relationship with Archibald since.

Anyway, enough of my reminiscing.

I hear not just the footsteps of Mr. Gourmand, but of another, more irregular set in beat.

When I look, to my surprise! Edgar Ivrogne! Former partner to Archibald.

And Edgar bumps into Archibald:

Archibald: 

You damnable wretch! You bump into me, smelling of drink.

THE DAMN NERVE! YOU DIRTY BASTARD!

(Archibald attacks Edgar with his brief case, smashing him over the head repeatedly…Edgar breaks his bottle and attacks Archibald.)

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Oh my God…what just…it looks like…shine your light down upon them, would you?

OH MY GOD! Edgar just bashed the bottle over the head of Archibald…the bottle's broken…Oh…my…God…he just stabbed Archibald in the neck!

Archibald is staggering, and Edgar…oh no…he's stabbing him over and over repeatedly…there is no hope for Archibald now.

Edgar drags Archibald off into an ally somewhere. It is now eerily quiet.

I know not what to say…'tis so shocking…'tis so shocking.

I think I had best lay down…maybe have a drink or two.

I could, and probably should, call the police. But Archibald got his just desserts, and it isn't as if they won't find him later.

Oh well. Until our next rendezvous, Moon,

I bid you adieu.*

What a Godly man,

Yet, he hasn't a soul.

Everything is cyclical.

Memnoch sees Red.

The Moon:

The poetic old man retires for the rest of the evening.

In reality, we're all poets,

But some just choose to expose their craft.

I wonder what he will dream this evening

Beneath the stars and the celestial skies and I.

I wonder if he is ready to dance with The Devil in the pale of the moonlight?

I guess I will find out.

I wonder if the old man, in his "poetic" mind,

Has sugar plums dancing in his head….

He has no deep, dark, impenetrable secrets that I know of, but then I've seen everything in which he has ever endeavored.

He never has divulged much information openly to me about himself or to others.

He may have a valid reason.

After all, total seclusion and isolation will keep a fool on the hill, sitting perfectly still, from murdering the hopes of mankind, and yet, I don't know what he's truthfully preventing.

It seems as if he has his own personal, inner demons he is harboring.

It is almost if his sole purpose on Earth is to be that of a watcher and not one to venture far from the pack and actually experience the wonders of the vast wilderness.**

The Devil:

He is a pure soul, though. I have, indeed, seen him in every action.

He has never engaged in any acts of violence or extramarital affairs.

In that sense, the old man is pure,

But he is committing murder…the murder of himself, in the darkness.

Perhaps dying in the dark is the superior way, for what is opaque is non-visible to the human eye.

DARKNESS! The blind killer.

The blind cancer of the brain.

The blind molestation of how love is hate and hate is love.

Yeah, that thin line.

DARKNESS! That which you cry for your mommy to join you in bed because some monster is preparing to spring forth from beneath and swallow you whole.

DARKNESS! In the form of the Original Sin that blinds you away from the truth and names of The Father, The Son, and The Holy Ghost….

And you can feel the burning mandibles of Hell reaching for you -

Hear me roar:

OH, THE HORROR!!

Now you hear me…and now you hear me.

City of New Orleans.

Prostitutes are running wild on the street corners, twitching their little tails, making their honey money, though the money might be directed toward The Pimp, who lives in The Underground.

These are the people God has lost to immorality.

These whores will go to Hell.

There is no doubt about it.

The mighty Mississipp' and Lake Ponchartrain might have to flood if these sinners are to only heed The 

Word of God by force.

Ah! I see the sun! Time to fly….***

*The Sun Rises.

The Old Man:

I yawn.

One thing for certain, though, is that mankind will have to deal with one villain fewer today.

God has spoken, and the greedy old man Archibald Gourmand is now deceased.

History.

Food for maggots.

Now, "ol'" Archie is at the bottom of the food chain.

It appears from my looking out my deck window that the boys in blue have found the area where Edgar dumped his body; most appropriately, it was in a trash compacter.

I always harbored the hilarious thought that Archibald Gourmand was the wealthiest piece of garbage on the face of the earth.

However, what became of Edgar?

I would like to know that myself.

There are no traces of him anywhere….

Oh poor Edgar! How could he have become such a hopeless vagrant?

He's never been given a fair shake at life, so it appears.

If they catch him, he'll surely be tried and either serve out his life at Angola or be sentenced to death.

Moon knows what happened, but he's not around to disclose any vital information.

I could always book a trip to China, where Moon is probably at right now, but I would be simply meeting myself "coming and going."

I want some answers from Moon.

After all, Edgar murdered Archibald Gourmand on his clock.

Not that I'm upset that it happened.

After all, if there ever was a better person to be murdered, I don't know who it would be.

I'm glad Archibald is dead, for he can no longer cause more pain and misery.

God has carried out His Judgment.

I only hope that Robert Souvaleur can find a job that pays well.

Yet, a strange visual I see: poor ole Robert is out in the streets drinking, and grabs his pistol and shoots himself in his mouth, and flat blew his brains out.

He was more like Edgar than I thought.

He, like Edgar, never had a chance.

And apparently, neither will his family.*

For God hath spoken.

Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!

And He will speak more,

For His Truth is marching on.

***The Decomposition of Archibald Gourmand.

The Devil:

The maggots are crawling in his mouth.

The maggots are crawling in his ears.

The maggots are crawling in his nose, preparing to dine upon his chapped, white flesh.

And then, there are the worms, squirming in their little wormy ways, eating ol' Archie's corpse in their wormy daze….

S O B R I E T Y!

These critters need something to quell their appetite for good!

How is it possible for the corpse to protrude its eyes, for Archie is dead!

Oh! It popped out!

What a cute little millipede!

Pretty lil' crawly fellow! He's so hungry!

Now, Archie's other eye is popping out, and the ground looks as if a couple of people lost track of their ping-pong balls….***

*And then there is the Big Bang….

The Old Man: 

And the earth opens.

And there is fire and brimstone.

The corpse of Mr. Archibald V. Gourmand elevates, then explodes, and one million of Satan's minions leap out and begin to raise Hell.*

***MALUS MALUS MALUS.

The Devil:

Those sinners are gonna get it now!

Those sinners! Those revelers of gluttony!

GLUTTONOUS BITCHES! GLUTTONOUS BASTARDS!***

The Old Man:

And the Red Dragon ascends from the depths of the earth, and molten-hot magma pours onto the surface,

And devours everything within its path.

Women and children frantically run while fire department workers attempt to extinguish the liquid-raging inferno, but it is all for wrought.

In what I can only speculate is an attempt to spite God, the Red Dragon emits a long stream of fire into the sky, then tells The Lord to "go fuck Himself."

The Red Dragon grabs a handful of petrified people who were running for their lives and eats them; their souls belong to him now.

The magma has not reached me yet, but lo' and behold! A bubble!

A voice from way on high…His Voice…tells me to enter the bubble…tells me that he is disgusted with humanity and its impurity…that he wants me to enter the bubble so that he may give humanity one final chance.

But who could I mate with?

"Jack and Jill went up a hill…."

And upon that shiny city building, they kiss each other a pure kiss, a pure love's kiss, and I pass onto them the magic bubble, and I descend into Hell's flames….*

**The Moon Returns

The Moon:

I am back. It's a bit warm down there on the surface.

The Red Dragon down there is spouting his flames into the air with curses toward The Lord.

This continues for a few minutes, then out of the fiery lava pits rises a warrior with a long blade.

The Red Dragon attacks the warrior with his terrible flames, but the warrior merely wards them off with his sword.

Then, when the Red Dragon leaps into the air and attempts to crush his opponent, the warrior holds his sword up and stabs him in the heart; blood pours out all over the warrior.

The Red Dragon writhes in pain, and in one final swipe of the sword, the warrior slices off the head of the 

Red Dragon, and immediately, both figures melt down into the molten lava.

It appears, at least from my point of view, that the worst is over with the Red Dragon gone.

As I watch down below at all flames, all the screams of pain and sorrow, I see the bubble carrying Jack and 

Jill into the sky, and inside that bubble, they are making passionate, sweet love.

They are our hope for mankind.

They hold the world in the palms of their hands.

Jack and Jill, within their bubble, begin to orbit the earth in much the same fashion

I do.

They're not too bad at it for novice satellites.

I pray to God and ask him when this all will end.

He told me to give it three days.

Three days later….

At night time while it is cool, God calls upon me to pull the surface of the earth upward, and so I do.

Through the thickened, crusted lava, holes begin to take shape, and water spouts out.

The earth begins to flood.

I've not seen it so blue in billions of years.

This brings back memories, I tell you.

Back, you know, when everything was just getting started.

Within a little while, the entire globe is covered with water.

And from the center of the earth ascends the old man.

But all is well; Jill is pregnant with a baby, due, of course, within the next nine months.

I ask God when we are to expecting the reformation of continents.

He says within the next week or so.

I'll take Him at his word.

He's never lied to me in the past.**

The Old Man:

Well, I've never felt pain such as what I felt down in the bowels of Hell before in my life.

I don't know if I can ever truly relate to you, ol' Moon, how much pain and suffering I had to withstand; there were times I wish I would've died.

The temptations to do things that were evil were great, but I had just one goal in mind: to live to tell the tale to people throughout the rest of time, whether by word of mouth or by my writings.

I knew that if I gave in, all hope for a new, more pure mankind would be lost.

But my own faith and personal convictions led me to victory over the evils of The Devil.

I will probably never be able to truly divulge all the information to people because Hell is something that is incomprehensibly evil, but I can tell the people of today and tomorrow that as long as they appreciate this, the dawn of the new Eden and of the new day and the Goodness of God, they shall be able to preserve purity here on Earth.

And you, ol' Moon, shall continue to rise over the sunset of everyday.*

"You gotta know when to hold 'em and know when to fold 'em."

- Kenny Rogers

Finis