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.

Dance for me, dear minstrel of the moon,
Sing languidly, sweet flute of the lune.
Tressed in silver trains and sashed with gleaming stars,
Galaxies for your flowing mane, Princess of Mars.

White against red, like blood to linen cloth–
Such is your skin, as soft as a white moth:
A spot of whitewash, a drop of pure milk
That stains the heavy crimson sky with silk.

Descending from your ship of steel,
Your gaze in veils of iron concealed,
You step onto the sand of the Moon –
The first of foreigners in the land of Aün.

A grand procession seeps from the ships:
Brass, woodwinds, and pipes on their lips,
Maidens of braided coiffures and gowns,
Menservants bearing jewelry and crowns.

Lances, spears, percussion, and cheer,
The Universe revels in awe and fear.
Gonfalons, standards, colors, and banners:
Kings, lords, and men of all manners,

Gathered from every corner of this Realm,
With ships of all sizes, and captains at their helms,
To witness and celebrate a sacred union
Of two people, two nations, in a blessed fusion.

Aün and Imandi, two worlds made one,
A union, a tie, dare challenged by none.
The Moon and Mars now weaved with a loom
Of iron and silver–the bride and groom.

O Princess of Mars, allow me one last glance,
As the breeze whips your hair in a dance,
As your dress sways to a sweet lullaby,
As I whisper a final goodbye.

Though I’m unworthy, allow me this word,
I’ll dare to say it, though it sounds absurd:
I love you, o princess–a plain, simple love.
With my heart of hearts, like a tender dove.

Not a love of pain and lust,
Neither one of ashes and dust.
Though it’s rude, admit it I must,
Lest my strength be made to rust.

Go, dear princess. Take your prince’s hand;
Enter with his people, his heart, and his land.
For now is not the time to weep,
But to sing, twirl, dance, and leap.

A cheer erupts from the gathered crowd–
Ten thousand races, hands aloud;
Brass resound a hymn from Mars,
Pipes and drums echoing the stars.

With a forlorn gaze, I sigh and falter.
With quivering breath, I sadly whisper,
“Farewell, dear princess. May your years be prosperous,
And your love be stronger than a fortress.”

With one last look, I turn away,
Boarding my ship, the 'Evergray'.
Though I’ve no plans, I’ll return someday,
A visit to the Prince and Princess I will pay.

The Human dream became the Martian dream as we slept on our Mars-bound voyage. We could see colonies amidst landscapes pristine, teeming with strange Martian plants discovered post-bloom.

The Martians were adorned with ivory carvings and had surrounded themselves with esoteric paintings of marauding faces. They spoke in strange tongues, switching between Martian and another almost incomprehensibly clandestine tongue of barbaric intonation. Although they clutched sharp, ivory spears with a fierce resolve, they remained docile in our presence, and told us of the vivid dreams they had engaged in as a group prior to our arrival; abstract dreams, tinged with fragmented images of insemination and visitation by the Mars Moth-Man— he who was oil-funded and had been delivering concrete messages to the people of Mars ever since the first settlers had arrived in the distant past.

But, once we had truly set foot upon Mars— from outside the strange realm of dreams which lives solely within our collective mind's eye— we could not have foretold that our shared dream was revealed to be a sprawling wasteland of infertile soil.

We need to be putting people on planets
before there are Putin people on planets
so we can dictate a culture
free from dictators
deporting the Dutertes from the atmosphere
that burns the arrows of the Bolsonaros
there's no progressive bastion here
so we must look forward in the years
past all of the Kim Jong-uns
even though their bombs might fall soon
so we can find the Roosevelts and Kennedys
to change the scorching hell ahead we see
but those leaders are obstructed
by the not so brainy
followers of Ali Khameini
believing ancient myths and men who grift
there's so much mud to sift there's no way to lift
what keeps us from other planets
through nationalist panic
and conspiracy theories
reaching the selective hearing
of god fearing *******
calling Trump their master
and the oppressed their slaves
we need to reach other planets
but we're still stuck in the cave.

There’s a 7-11 on Mars,
with parking for plenty of cars.
There’s never a wait in line
and you never get carded for wine.

There’s a huge monument on Venus,
it's shaped like a giant *****.
That’s a salute to Jeffery Bezos,
is it accurate and life-like - who knows?

A universe for the rich,
who found a technological niche,
with their business soaring,
to the stars they are roaring,
but for the rest of us, life is a *****.

Reading the front pages
Why? Because you’re beautiful
To an unread poet and Whipping posts away,
It’s untitled leaking..It’s just like water,
An October sky It’s just a memory
A cry for the quiet... Burns A candle
For the lost in translation about Fake love
Falling for If they wanted they would.
I care that Mars is a red planet
I’m still here is A suicide note

No one never seen a ghost
We believed, there none
even now we cannot see
Just watching mortality of human race
And humanity in crowd

Not to worry about

Mars is ready for mass
Or mankind is eager
To be alive there as the aliens
or living ghost