The Race to the Moon

While Clueless Americans Sweat the Price of Eggs

Supposedly, we are now in the midst of entrepreneurial geniuses, so here is my take on these heartless fellows, and the stupidity of my fellow citizens to accept faulty grand narratives, which themselves suggest that “geniuses” actually give a damn about people.

Einstein’s Brain

Because of the certitude of death, my human heart, which is always eight-years-old, wept. The doorbell rang and a little man appeared carrying Einstein’s brain in a pickle jar of yellowish liquid. The man was pursuing the Seat of a Genius, so I let him in, resting his jar on my sad, wooden chair. Einstein’s brain looked like everyone else’s, except pieces had been sliced off and wrapped in cheesecloth. I touched the jar for consolation. I touched the jar and wept. “Cheer up,” the man said. “I’m nearly done with my research and the results promise to be inconclusive.”

[This prose poem and the last one of this post are from While the Undertaker Sleeps: Collected and New Prose Poems Undertaker

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Yesterday I read that we are in a significant race with China to get to the south side of the moon first and claim it before they do. It appears that there is underground water there, and if we can tap into it, we will be able to establish a base—a kind of halfway house or way station for an eventual trip to Mars, which I would argue is even dumber than going to the moon.

But I’ll get to that later.

Why bother going to the moon? you might ask. Here are five reasons some meathead arrived at just this morning:

1) To understand the origins and ubiquity of life.

2) To develop new technologies.

3) To encourage space tourism.

4) To facilitate space mining.

5) To advance science.

Sounds purposeful, doesn’t it, even altruistic, but friends, I have serious problems with the above rationales.

First, I would suggest that if you want to understand the “Origins and Ubiquity of Life,” get off your phone, stop streaming series all night, and lay off the Red Bull for a few weeks, so that you aren’t constantly distracted and twitching like a cornered rat. Then take a deep breath, go someplace quiet, and contemplate your past experiences with the “ubiquity of life,” or delve deeper into the philosophical and emotional complexities of it by reading Thoreau. Or maybe just take a walk through the woods and watch and “listen” instead of being trapped by the crippling Inward Gaze. In short, experience THIS world on every profound level possible before trucking off to Philip K. Dickland.

Secondly, I’m offended that people like Elon Musk believe that we are dumb enough to accept that he is developing new technologies to better mankind. The truth is, he and other billionaires are doing it to make money and to assuage their insatiable egos. It’s a kind of metaphorical jerking off, something men, and it has always been men, have done since the first homo sapiens stumbled out of his cave, stared at the wonders around him, and instead of being in awe, thought, in his little caveman brain, “All this great shit is for me, just for me! Now how can I use it to kick ass and get some girls?”

Thirdly, “encourage space tourism”? I don’t know about you, but I have trouble trouble scrounging up cash to spend a week on the coast of the Maine, so, again, it’s all about making money.

Fourthly, my response to “facilitating space mining” is the same as above—a con to make rich guys richer, though I would also ask, “Who’s going to work the mines? Who wants to come home after collecting moon rocks all day and errant golf balls, then retire to their little moon caves that have a lousy Internet connection?” Or maybe Musk has thought about that. After all, what better place to deport migrants to than to the moon, then convince them that it’s a great opportunity for personal growth.

Fifth, let’s translate “advance science” as: “I am a scientist who is basically unemployable, so when the grant money runs out, I’ll be sitting home watching the original Blade Runner for the 100^th time, so if Americans are dumb enough to give us tax dollars, I promise to find some cool things on the moon. And if I can’t, Elon owns the media, so he’ll just make something up.”

Now, although the above discussion is meant to be humorous, what we lose by spending a small fortune on celestial exploration is pretty catastrophic.

Consider this: Yesterday I read that homelessness increased by 18% last year, and that nearly 150,000 children experienced homelessness on a single night in 2024. Why don’t these rich guys, instead of putting on their cowboy boots and cowboy hats and taking 15-minute ride on their 5.5 billion dollar rocket ships, meet in a quiet room and decide how they can stop homelessness, and childhood leukemia, and opioid deaths, and I could on and on. The money is certainly there.

And, finally, to rich guys themselves, I would say, “Stop bullshitting us, man. It’s insulting.” Why don’t you just issue the following public address: “Sorry, citizens, but it’s not our problem that you are poor and not bright enough to be rich. So rather than make up grandiose reasons for space travel, let’s just say that it makes us feel good, not to mention the outrageous sex acts gorgeous women will perform on us after they know we’ve been to the moon. Rock stars? Superstar athletes? Presidents of countries? No way can they compete with that.”

And on that note, accept this prose poem that satirizes a few grand narratives that conmen and grifters often attempt to seduce us common folks with.

The Goddess

A time characterized by erectile dysfunction and post-industrial sighs, when machinery came to a halt and smokestacks stopped coughing up their poisons. A time when white guys lost their collective minds. A time like now—the skin of a decade rotting under the fingernails of a fat guy with orange hair who made a fortune selling bad steaks. “I keep hearing conversations from the fourth century when things made a little sense,” my friend says, “when philosophers were willing to wet-nurse you through a concept.” Today, we’re touring a local mansion, a naked goddess frozen under a marble threshold, swearing on a book of broken images that she actually exists.

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You can find Peter Johnson’s books, along with interviews with him, appearances, and other information at peterjohnsonauthor.com

His most recent book of prose poems is While the Undertaker Sleeps: Collected and New Prose Poems

His most recent book of fiction is Shot: A Novel in Stories

Find out why he is giving away his new book of prose poem/fragments, even though he has a publisher for it, by downloading the PDF from the below link or going to OLD MAN’S homepage. His “Note to the Reader” and “Introduction” at the beginning of the PDF explains it all: Observations from the Edge of the Abyss