A sonic boom then

loop slow mo around everything 

you left behind

this earth

a pile of Orwellian trash

rich in absurdity:

dead dogs

breast implants and miraculous still

green and 


ridges, water, desert 

each place

full of skittering things 

seeking shade 



A children’s magazine tries to answer questions about Mars:

    “What will I eat?"

    “How will I pee?”


Passengers watch one another for signs 

of system failure.

On the outside we approximate symmetrical

two legs two arms two hands two feet

inside a delicate wet 


    "And what if it mutates?"

Evolution is roulette:

progressive, mostly fatal


gambling, dying,

a few lesser losses, some draws.


Breath held for

a soft landing

to a fresh 

burning world,

not enough summer 

not enough snow.


We engineer

grave errors previously unimagined

but familiar

kaleidoscope them for Goldberg variations

of not quite the same mistakes, 

played flawlessly.

A reef of old kitchenettes 

mobile phones

vined through,

new deranged knock knock jokes:

breast implants 

dead dogs.