Category: The Grimerica Show


As the Island slept, I, the Moai, looked on and stood guard atop my Ahu platform from Midnight on. The Moon my sister imperceptibly traversed the deep shadowy pools of the Sky’s Nighttime adornment. Sister Moon’s glacial Spirit was heavy yet somehow aloft in the Void, arcing, arcing, glowing, softening. And somewhere the Almighty Sun continued marching its Milky Way from one grand Equinox to the next, the Moon its mirror.


One past Midnight, a somnambulist Ant named Synchro crawled down in a striation at my brow, which was chiseled into its final form by one of my Worshipers long ago. Synchro the Ant hoofed along my sturdy neck with a dirt payload on his back. O, how he built majestic anthills in his sleep, particulate by particulate, no grain of sand out of place. Night after Night I watched this industrious fellow as the Constellations cycled round and round. It was around the Time when he sleepily finished his most whimsical anthill yet — with labyrinthine tunnels that matched the Stars’ paths in some peculiar way — that I prophesied how Synchro the Ant would days later meet his demise in an avalanche of scree along the declivity to the Shore nearby. His Lilliputian body sunk into the Earth, recycled to be then of the same Matter his Slumberland anthills were made, his body the Cornerstone of the Anthill Temple of the Nth iteration. That’s Death; that’s dying. That’s simply Life heard from the mouth of the Moai, no beguiling.


Two after Midnight, the Moon hung high above, and just out of the corner of my eye a kinetic cousin to me Mr. Comet put on a light show as he streamed into the Big Dipper’s reservoir and fizzled out, as if winking at both me and the Moon.


Three on from Midnight, the Spirit Hour was in full bloom, plumes of Energy waltzing every which way, the Soundscape silent yet saturated with the Life Force ready always to arrive anew with a vigorous yawn or sonic boom — a hushed breath of flower’s perfume or seaward Tempest signaling doom. My sister the Moon was at ease in the Firmament, her location ephemeral, her brilliance enduring. Surrounded by her Star kinfolk, she knew no worry, was in no hurry to race to the Horizon.


Four past Midnight came in a timely fashion, with it the Birds began orchestrating their timeless symphony, warbling, cooing, tweeting, repeating, and feeding on the Worms who innocently had come up to drink on the Morning dew. That’s Death; that’s dying. That’s simply Life heard from the mouth of the Moai, no beguiling.


At Five on from Midnight, my sister the Moon was still alive but nearing the Horizon: her favorite hiding place. O, how she and the Almighty Sun do delight in crisscrossing and all the while painting Heaven’s canvas with all the Colors of the Light spectrum pallet. She embodies Light. See her in all her phases, waxing and waning, costume-changing in the confines of her boudoir in the mesmerizing Palace of the Nighttime Sky.


Six after Midnight happened swiftly, and with it my sister the Moon was gone, tucked behind the Horizon, lost from my ancient eyes for a Time. But nevertheless she would soon return sensuously so, all aglow, and Poseidon’s Tides would be the first to know. The Moon would again — from Midnight on — arc, arc brightly amidst the Dark.



In dedication to my sister J.C.O. Vaya con Dios, mi querida hermana.



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     Out of nothing emerges something bold: the Moai. The density of my stone façade and eyebrow’s fold mean business, as does my clockwork mind musing both on the minutiae and also the capacious matters of all the known and unknown universe. Listen now and listen well, for the Musings of a Moai will cast you under a thrumming spell. Now clear your whirling mind, and the Moai will likewise whirl your sterling mind back into the flux of a timeless motif cache that’ll seem déjà vu but will be something altogether new and never passé. Will you take the red pill? Will you sit still and peruse the thrilling musings brought to form from the pinpoint tip of this Moai’s inky quill? My Moai psyche is born from solidified volcanic ash within an Easter Island perfect storm, an Easter Island ocean swell. I’ll unearth all myth and will forever live to tell how infinite souls, and civilizations all the same, do interminably cycle through Heaven and Hell, Heaven and Hell — Heaven and Hell. But fear not, for Nirvana, that small chance you’ll break free from that tumultuous cycle, can be reached if only you’ll catch a wave on this Moai’s nerves and neurons a-musing on how all our everlasting souls can thus be saved, can thus be atoned under the scrutiny of Moai eyes made of stone.

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