wake up, rod

so, kicking this off - this is very new, don't really know where it's going yet. I really like basquiat, and he's a new discovery for me, so excuse my eager shittiness. by discovery I mean that I've become obsessed with him lately, not that he's a hidden secret. chunky as in crown -after Basquiat they (the clouds) are shaped like the best british sea power the empire has to offer, sitting heavy on the invisible clothing line separating worlds. he is there, etching tiaras, princes, fathers into vapor with a childish grasp of a nimbus knife, spine arms fluttering like musical saw whinging air. dude’s that ish splattering reeboks with white-out regalia, finding the divine right to rule, to command the thunderheads in every vertex. every stroke a proclamation. each chunk a crown.

So, for the month of February, AD Caroselli (also known in some k-holes as bigscarygiraffe) and I will be playing a little poetry chicken. The requirement is three new pieces (or assignments from others) per week from each of us. If B or K would like to jump in, please do. If the two of you would like to issue assignments at us, you'll likely have a captive audience completing them. What's at stake? Why, only the most precious thing: a jug of Carlo barreled in the Rhine method. If you have some assignments going, please post them up after we both get 1 thing up each. Hopefully this will turn into something interesting. Lock down your aerial.

no more tidal forces pulling at her womb, she is amenorrhoeic, only feeling a low tug on her phylum when she slingshots around a planet. this isn’t how it’s supposed to go, but it’s how it is. the men ruptured barren after six weeks, spilling lifeless. like Vitruvian Woman, she is changeless and stoppered, a human geometry spinning galactic sublime into the center of the milky, potency jumping jacks into a flaming cosmic hush puppy.

Space Man Passes Pluto uses his compass and a venn diagram to navigate a place with no up or down. He isn’t worried per se, in his brushed chrome rocket, that he will get lost. He is already lost and the worst hasn’t happened yet, he doesn’t know what the worst is. He eats little silver tablets, does fifty push-ups every day, and waits for further instructions.

Write a poem. About space. That is ten lines long. Specifically, Someone living in space. No more. No less. I'll count. So do it! Please.