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
precious
ridges, water, desert
each place
full of skittering things
seeking shade
lunch.
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
mess.
"And what if it mutates?"
Evolution is roulette:
progressive, mostly fatal
dumb
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.