He sits in his rocking chair
Moon on his lap
He asks his wife for some more ice
In his eyeball-glass
She looks out the kitchen window
Eyes fixed on Antares-
The fish hook of the sky
Mars’ rival in its palace
She wonders why, if hunter’s dead,
She still feels strong desire
**** yourself before it kills you”
Whispers the star of fire
The son sits Indian style
Upon his race-car bed
He prays to Pluto and the sun
And ponders in his head,
“Am I proud to be an earthling?”
“Could my skin transform to fur?”
Then he closed his eyes
And realized
It’s not as they are
But as they were
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 2:01 PM UTC
He sits in his rocking chair
Moon on his lap
He asks his wife for some more ice
In his eyeball-glass
She looks out the kitchen window
Eyes fixed on Antares-
The fish hook of the sky
Mars’ rival in its palace
She wonders why, if hunter’s dead,
She still feels strong desire
**** yourself before it kills you”
Whispers the star of fire
The son sits Indian style
Upon his race-car bed
He prays to Pluto and the sun
And ponders in his head,
“Am I proud to be an earthling?”
“Could my skin transform to fur?”
Then he closed his eyes
And realized
It’s not as they are
But as they were
