Pluto floated somberly in his orbit that was askew,
Pondering the privilege that had been taken from his view.
He once was a part of the cool kids club.
Now just a floating rock.
Pluto remembered it vividly,
The moment a human discovered him initially.
Oh, how it filled him with such glee,
If only temporarily.
Jupiter was the biggest bully,
Chastised Pluto for his size,
Not that he could help it at all.
It gave the planets a point to talk.
Saturn and Neptune rolled their eyes.
Who was this ‘moon’ trying to join in on their fun?
Mercury screamed its disproval,
As it was blinded by the Sun.
Mars and Venus were indifferent,
And Uranus was Pluto’s one defendant.
Finally, the humans on Earth gave their verdict.
Pluto didn’t meet the criteria to be a planet.
He was immediately shunned,
His dwarf planet status had begun.
Not even the light from the Sun,
Cared to reach him at the edge of the solar system.
Pluto started to cry,
When Eris and Haumea floated by.
They lifted Pluto’s eyes.
Perhaps being chastised,
Was a blessing in disguise.

~
Two minutes of perseverance
two minutes of curiosity

Seeking out life
returning with ingenuity

It's all about surfaces and thresholds
and winter hemisphere

Each of us wants so badly
to be that next satellite

Or at least be allowed
to dream we're a small dark spot
moving across the Sun's face
~

Beneath Orion's belt of stars,
The Sphinx's forepaws guard the Sphinx
And all its secrets.  Blood-red Mars,
Beneath Orion's belt of stars,
Planning the war to end all wars,
Observes the mummy's forty winks.
Beneath Orion's belt of stars,
The Sphinx's forepaws guard the Sphinx.

There once was a martian from Mars
Named Alfț'drônþopo'gorgg'glìån'nars:
     He constructed a spaceship
     And went on a spacetrip
To the farthest, most alien stars.

A la nuit satine
la belle Orion se mire
dans l'air frissonnant
des sables constellés,
et sur les rives lactées
où coule le Nil,
je me pavane
le nez dans les étoiles,
suivant des yeux
les volutes sorcières
d'un havane suave
embaumant Misraïm.
Qu'ont-ils raconté
ces hommes, venant de Mars,
lorsqu'ils débarquèrent
de leurs vaisseaux,
fuyant leur terre moribonde ?
Et quel espoir oublié
chérissaient-ils
que garde en son ventre
le sphinx immobile ?
Mon vieux Samir
reprenons une rasade
de ce doux Rhum
couleur d'ambre
parfumé de santal
et laissons sous le sable
soupirer ce mystère
qui sommeille.

Some nights I visit you on Martian lands,
The red dust swirls in mindless, restless air.
We walk, I hold your cold, unearthly hands;
I tell you, always remember I care.

In ocean blue lives, I cared for your hair,
Your graceful brown curls falling down your face;
I cared for your voice in songs of despair,
I cared, my love, whom no one can replace.

Another world would give us time to spare
Before the darkness claimed your last pale breath.
We'd dance in moonlit trails for what we share,
And promise nothing would part us, not Death.

     She took you one day, when crossed were our stars.
     As slumber came, you said, see you on Mars.

There’s a girl I know on Mars
Who wears tube socks
With everything she wears,
No matter if they’re stretched out or not.
There, the wind barely blows,
It barely even whistles.
But she doesn’t like her feet
To get cold.

Every time we talk,
We talk about everything
And nothing.
She sits at home and watches
The stars from her window,
Swinging one of her legs
From the arm of the couch.

I told her that I’d mail her a new
Pair of socks if I could find
A pair with Mars on them,
And a pair that had the moon
Printed on them.
Especially that far out, I bet they’re
Hard to find.

Maybe I’d settle for a pair myself,
To see what she sees in these things,
After all, she always wears them.
Maybe I’ll get her a pair that stretches
To her knees,
A solid color to match her couch,
To hide the red dirt that creeps
In her house.

After all, we’re human.
We need something that connects us
To who we are, who we used to be.
Anything to make us feel
More important than what we are

Like an old lover,
I press my lips on the mouthpiece,
And I blow.
I blow until my lungs are about give out.
I blow until the beads of stardust twinkle.
The air tastes like rust.
Still, I play.
I may not have learned all the notes
On this blue saxophone,
But still, I play what sounds good to me.
The air rolls over me like a dream
One I didn’t have the good sense to
stay asleep and finish.

The red dust longs
For thicker air,
Burning with everything that it knows
The taste of its name,
The hunger of its touch,
The pull of something stronger
Than us both.
If silence comes from a mouth,
It is still felt, regardless of whether
It has arms.
Mars, a girl that history got wrong,
wisps through the red dust.
Whether I stay here on Mars,
Return to Earth, or go somewhere different,
You never forget the way breath
Feels against your skin.
Never.

I continue to press my lips on
The mouthpiece,
I blow until my lungs are about give out.
I play what sounds good to me,
Whether it’s old or new.
Love is still love,
No matter how cold it gets

He was a soul
crafted by Jupiter:
limitless,
wild,
and always  
searching.

I am a soul
crafted by Mars:
driven,
unforgiving,
and unyielding.

When you shunned him
for discovering
our existence
our meaning
our joys
our sorrows,
I watched
for years
and years,
a fire inside
my blazing chest.

Now, I hold the scythe
in my hand,
untouched by the flames.
I hold your fate in my hands
and watch the flames
consume you
as you await your retribution.