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Monday, April 02, 2012

as turtles paddling through lake strewn
with biomatter,
as hurtling space junk, which Voyager One will become
in a dozen years,
as Tibetan monks immolating themselves toward an afterlife,
the big empty,
as they burn by the dozens, we don’t notice anymore
as a burning, as a speeding outward
and interplanetary,
as a golden record the probe carries
with baby cries and whale songs,
as the monks drink kerosene as an internal accelerant,
exploding in protest,

and we are cheap gas and unlimited condiments
and all-you-can-eat and two-for-one and Happy Hour
and T-minus fifteen seconds
and made for T.V., reality T.V.,

as long as reality isn’t burning monks
or whales driven insane by Navy sonar
and beaching themselves,
or unloosed sewage streaming into the ponds
of our unfertile crescent.

We are engage, ignition, liftoff of the Titan III,
pushing ourselves toward the heliosphere

as a crying newborn rocketing from the womb.