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Oh, to See Mars Storm

Little white cosmonaut  

Waves from the foreign surface  

Alone in a red pool surrounded by sandy hills  

   

The turbulent weather grows still  

As the eye of an awe struck storm god  

Stares blankly at the hard white calcified object before it  

   

A washing machine turns over furiously in the distance  

Jerking hard enough to send cascades of rainfall  

That birth shallow pools trapping the dirty twinkle of overhead fluorescent suns  

  

An old man stands transfixed  

Water puddling at his shoes and   

Lifting tattered laces off porcelain  

His gray cloudy beard quivers in confusion, staring at the thing in   

his hand  

   

The cosmonaut meets his gaze, implacable  

While over the horizon, over the tendrils of weathered rocks  

Reminiscent of Arizona, of home, reminiscent of fingers bursting from the earth  

An enormous being unblurs into view  

Flashing neon daylight becomes eclipsed by the unnaturally simplified geometry of a triangle being pierced by a rainbow  

An ominous cat clock briefly falls into orbit  

Eyes manically flickering back and forth between the existing scene and its encroaching apocalypse  

The chud of the decrepit laundry machine strikes hard, cheap tile  

Smacking down, permanently scraping off color, and keeping time with the distant words howling out of the brewing celestial force  

Black   

and blue  

   

The storm god briefly recognizes that there is something more important on mars than a tooth  

Meanwhile the tiny visitor is fearless and unmoved  

Utterly apparent  

It has always known it was at the whim of greater forces  

   

And now privy to this perfect syzygy  

Acting as both the precursor and witness  

Notary and citizen  

A straight line through space and time ultimately terminating in a collision  

It says nothing  

The storm god’s gray brow furls  

Attention finally diverting from the impressively calm cosmonaut  

To the meteoric fist rapidly hurtling towards its everything  

   

All three figures are frozen in a moment  

Observer. Receiver. Instigator  

A disheveled old man daydreams about the bloody tooth in his hand  

The tooth thinks nothing at all  

And a different, but equally disheveled man wearing a Pink Floyd shirt aims a second punch at the jerk who stole his laundry  

And who knows which is which  

And who is who

We work with being, but the empty space is what we use

Mountain Roads