Harvest Moon

 “Autumn is the year’s last, loveliest smile.” ― William Cullen Bryant

Surfing ever-deepening grooves carved in this country road by repetitious smoothing from my extremely low-frequency sounding spaceship tires, I zone into my own private symphonic opera. A humongous full moon meets myhigh beams and swallows the horizon. Pitch dark street light free ribbons of black asphalt snake along narrow paths to home and back separating the wild from the man-made world. By their grace I live in this dirt and courage wilderness.

I wave, as is the custom here, to the other spacemen travelers inhabiting our lifeline corridor as we whiz past each other with that all too familiar catatonic stare that monotony turns all commuters faces into; a kind of crazy, irrational drunkard swoon that seems to us all too rational. We are compatible complaints; dutifully fulfilling our social contract and coloring safely inside the lines.

Our axis rotating planet is orderly and slowly releasing its summer soul; producing more dark each day than light. In the murmuring twilight the gloaming summer is lifting her skirt. Summers death rattle beckons the underbrush and she begins to whisper as seductive and dangerous as a woman’s breath in the throes of passion. The sun begins to fall faster and everything seems to take on the sighing autumnal ember colors of all the sadness there ever was.

The pumpkins appear overnight, lined up and stacked in pyramids of orange and white like harmless cannon shells strategically set along highway shoulders for some impending artillery battle. Battalions of corn stalks surround them and us and everything for more miles than eyes can see. They are zombies, stoically awaiting the farmer’s murderous front row cultivators, threshers that mutilate then bury the detritus that once winter ferments will resurrect. A crisp cool Canadian breeze foretells fortune tales of fall.

Flowers fade, fruits flourish and fresh vegetable Bodega glisten with a luster from the sky. You can feel the baby’s breath of winter. Harvest moon is the fullness of life. Leaves turn red on their last days full of life and color them beautiful in death as they abandon the twigs that sympathize with their decay. Albert Camus opined that autumn is a second spring. But the migrating geese and me agree; we put distance between ourselves and funerals.

It’s a Paul Bunyan land of ballgames and barbecues here; a feast of Walden Pond and Lake Woebegone. The thousand little compromises we make every day that eventually add up to the loss of ourselves, that decayed stench of hollowness, disappears. This life to death with beauty dance is the real thing. Welcome to Pleasantville, USA.

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About circusinpurgatory
Nick Masesso Jr’s fictionalized short stories, poetry and prose have been published in the Starry Night Review, Elegant Thorn Review, Language and Culture.net and Vagabond Press; the Battered Suitcase. His latest book “Armor of Innocence” and first book “Walking the Midway in Purgatory, a Journal” are available on-line and through bookstores.

4 Responses to Harvest Moon

  1. Roy says:

    Good writing.

    As I pulled her panties off, I could see a lovely red bush, profuse and soft hair surrounded her luscious cunt lips. Like the the leaves of Autumn, I savored this ripe harvest gift. Her scent was earthy and sweet and I plunged my tongue into her succulent cunt. She moaned and cried as I licked her clit.

    She raised her legs up looking languidly with a fuck me now look on her face. I obliged plunging my hard cock in again and again shooting a huge load of cum deep inside her.

    Autumn reminds me of red headed pussy and the yellow hills of summer blonde pussy, spring Martian pussy

    I hope to get free Craigslist pussy this weekend. Going to Yosemite with Kathy baker next week

    R

    Sent from my iPhone

    >

    • Your masterful and passionate comment lay on my Blog under comments; immortalized in perpetuity.

  2. James Mcfarland says:

    Haunting shadows etched against Autumns’ russet dress, visions of Fall dance dark across my head… words to paraphrase and praise an unheralded author… Nick Masesso Jr., a masterful scribe, returned from many generations, the span of luminous lifetimes, the ultimate prophet and philosopher, well before, well ahead of our time!

    • Gonna have to steal that first line. Thanks for the Kudos.

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