wake up, rod

Lost in a cannon of curve mirrors, he cannot perch or sling, rather sings every space song ever but only the chorus about Major Tom comes like a repetition that has fresh written all over it. He misses lettuce, putting on shoes, sharpening pencils. To catalog is to mark and there is no time here, just categories of awake-- stop, pause, breathe: the stars a shimmy machine.

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.