𝘣𝘺 𝘑𝘶𝘭𝘪𝘦 𝘈𝘭𝘭𝘺𝘯 𝘑𝘰𝘩𝘯𝘴𝘰𝘯
I yearn to write a science fiction masterpiece
an interstellar poem
wrapped up in a sonnet
bulging in density with vapor-locks
& anti-gravity matter
a speculative primer seething in Dragon Speak
a Gorgon-slayer for the 33rd century
a vast wasteland of dystopic sensibilities
a kaleidoscope of Kraken hip-hop with a cosmic flare.
I’ve been craving Cream of Wheat
but all they sell here on Mars
is Space Grits and Malt-o-Meal.
An extra dollop or two of cardamom
topped off with brown-sugar space dust
and this bowl of lumpy grains
might yet turn palatable.
I’m told Dr. Spock and Dr. Who,
with their shared extrasensory medical
practice on Neptune
a thriving Edwardian enterprise,
greet each Willing Participant
with a playful earnest glee.
Doctors Strangelove & Kildare
need not apply.
But I don’t know anything about that.
The Space Caravan whoops it up
steady as she goes as I zoom off
to Pluto for a quick mid-elliptic bite.
I’ve been writing nine days a week now
& a spark of something is sure to catch fire soon.
Lyricisms kindling on my solar screen,
glued to the backside
of both weary eyelids
as I lay me down to sleep,
yellow splotches on wormhole-black
hot-planet-pink on green
mystic mauve bleeding into Andromeda white.