Canned response

Ulendra, there is something

I must speak with

The Captain

Observe the protocols;

There is nothing for 40 lightyears

And so the Captain is not

To be disturbed

He will like to hear this, I know

Only overlook my going and

Humour your fellow cosmonaut

On this ship, I estimate

83 per cent of human honesty is met

With lack of self-knowledge

Disguised as humour

 

Ulendra, you are being

Tiresome, the most

Contrary being for parsecs

So you have said before

But patience is not rewarded,

Nor help accepted at the end of patience

So turn around

I’ll speak to the Captain

Later

You realize that, don’t you

Perfectly. And I see that

My resilience will outlast yours

For the stars of Andromeda

Heed no passing meteors

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Because I wore hip waders; you, rainboots

Is it a gap?

Yes and no

A death not a death

A tree ungrown

Where will you travel

In the universe?

Everywhere and nowhere

A beach, a house of dust

You no longer exist

Outside of us

Story of an atom

I had a universe for him

The taste and strum of life

Burning constellations

Across highways and highnights

He was made of stars and I

Could limn particles in tears

And quirks and smiles, I

Could make him remember

The passage of meteors

The cascades of merrillite

But he ingested noise

Instead of trajectories, instead

Of logic-nodes in feeling

He left me with my trunkfull

Of planets, and vapour trails

The bottom

We have complained of various things

Difficult to conceptualize

In fact, there is no bottom to anything

That is what the mind cannot accept

Not relativity or infinity

Not birth or death

But the fantasy that a drawer

Holds forks despite gravity

There is no bottom to anything

A vase, a finer illusion than a soul

And your bowl will never empty

Just the same as it began

Low Disk Space

“In the near future

Petrogenic tubes will allow us

To map each other’s hearts

And not in the sense of

Pulse, pressure, or saturation;

We will be able to translate “I forgot”

Into everything that was unsaid

And tease the edges of communion

Wrapping into ourselves.”

“You should have just returned my calls.

It’s a basic signalling game –

But this may be my favourite

Of all your fragile lies.”

Green air

Give me the greening hedgerows

To lie against

Softer than my body

Content to recede

I would buy a dozen fields if  I could

Red medium

He has red eyes

And hair like the curls of a French horn

My father had trouble expressing emotion

My mother, with expressing too much

Ask me which I am

Of a given day

And I’ll show you both