Too ****** up to ever get ****** up.

Even the sun will die, my dear.
Burning as it’s ending,
ending as it’s giving,
giving as it’s shining,
shining as it's burning,
and burning as it’s ending.

Before the world goes black,
I want you to die like the sun.
Be beautiful and broken and bright.
All to suspend the darkness,
even just for a moment longer.

Darling, I want you to die like the sun.

She is a sunflower -
a fully alive homeland.
Grown to bloom into the dust,
she follows the sun.
Each stroke reminding me how it feels to be alive.
And that is hard to find.

Tick
Can you hear the time?
                                                As her pencil – tap, tap, taps – on the desk,
                                                history drones on in the background. She
                                                wishes for time to wisp itself away, as her
                                                eyes chase the clock around the bend.
Tock
It passes by.
                                               The clacking and clambering of high heels
                                                on pavement announce the haste in her
                                                heart. Five more minutes – just five more
                                               minutes – until her life tumbles before it
                                               begins. Time drips down her spine; it sends
                                               a shiver back up it. Coffee drips down her
                                               arm.
Tick
It never stops.
                                               His time is measured in meters and dashes.
                                               He runs circles to get to the end. While he
                                               races the runners, he races the time, trying
                                               to beat counting at its own game.
Tock
Why won’t it stop?
                                              A mother jolts awake to the sound of wails.
                                              “2:38am.” Dragging her body out of a
                                              cloud, she wishes for time to sleep through
                                              the night. She wishes for time long gone.
Tick
What if it stops?
                                              The power goes out in a storm overnight,
                                              and the clocks begin to flash. A father
                                              meanders through the house that night to
                                              mend each blinking beacon before his kids
                                              awaken, suspended in time.
Tock
Please don’t stop.
                                             With these people concerned about time,
                                             you probably glanced down at your watch.
                                             Do you have enough time to make it to the
                                             next meaningless task?
Tick
How much is left?
                                             How do you feel about killing time? We’re
                                             going to die, and we’re running out of time.
                                             Yet, as time murders you, you ****** time.
Tock
What time is it?
                                            The world goes on, and it will happen again.
Tick
Once at the beginning.
                                             As her pencil – tap, tap, taps – on the desk,
                                              history drones on in the background. She
                                              wishes for time to wisp itself away, as her
                                              eyes race the clock around the bend.
Tock
Can you hear the end?

When the sirens come on,
don’t remain above ground.

Your dad will probably stay and watch. He
keeps the front door wide open. He invites
those gathering winds for a nightcap.

You must
befriend the lonely
creaks as you descend.

(If you don’t have a basement,
just get as low as you can.
Lie down in a ditch.
Crawl into something concrete.
Hit rock bottom.
Drop to the floor. Anything
is better than a grave.)

You’ll want to turn on the TV,
or a radio,
or your intuition.

If it gets too bad,
or if dad never comes down,
or if the wind decides to stay for dessert,
curl up just as you did
when you wandered into this world
on your hands and knees, with the back
of your heels on your ****, forehead
to the ground, and cover your head
with your hands. Almost
like you’re praying.

Under its frigid, dusty surface,
Mars is humming.
Alien music.
The Martian song that never ends.

The first few months of listening
were worryingly quiet.
A harrowing descent
to a flat, featureless expanse.

It’s a waiting game,
a slow march.

Streams of charged particles,
turbulence in solar winds,
a sudden release,
and the marsquakes roll in.

A series of deep slashes,
pockets of magma,
the movement of molten rock,
a seismic signal,
the mysterious pulse,
the quiet, constant drone,
the source remains unknown.

The invisible conductor
of this magnetic orchestra
is likely high above
those Martian rumbles.

Your voice is a mix of frequencies,
and if one matches the resonance of a bell,
your shouts can set it ringing.

Novel coronavirus.
Travelers in motion.
Spewing the virus.

One fervent hope
in danger of being dashed.
Undocumented carriers.
86% of all infections.
These people are the major drivers.
The ones who facilitated the spread.

Unseen transmission.
Unseen spread.
Much harder to stomp.

The longer the period of silent viral shedding,
the more difficult it is to control the outbreak.

Containment is nearly not possible.