Layering sonic
in a Detroit loaner
wind, whine, tunes
full moon.

She hates convertibles.
Something about hair.
Something about tears.

She thinks only
of the neon house
of legal love and holy matrimony,
how the picture will look.
Will The King or some alien
welcome us in?

Will we dress as pirates?


There’s a reason we never colonized the solar system
and probably never will.

That reason is pussy.

Genocidal aliens got nothing on
fucking the right people at the wrong time.

Who locks up the murderer when he’s
the only doctor on the moon?

Who murders the pilot when he’s the only one
who can get you back to the shuttle?

But who wouldn’t?

Did NASA even have to war game this?

Who would they hire as Space Pimp?


The night we met–it’s all too clear now–
I couldn’t stand the tone she used
while dragging working-class pizza.

As if everyone can afford sun-dried tomatoes.

I had to look up “pesto” in the dictionary.


How much farther? she asks.
Do I tell her now or later?
There’s still a lot of road and
just two weeks from here to retrograde.

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