Fenton Spear
State of the Union
I’m done being mysterious
but it’s the only way
I can’t be serious.
I drink Tim Burton’s coffee
and turn into a dog.
Watch a frog ribbit.
I couldn’t care less.
I’m done being serious.
Planetary scientists agree
while supping tea on a ledge—
The spacecraft will widen
from the width of a parasol
to the length of a school bus
before reaching Mars.
The Martian sits inside
the cockpit like a sea slug
poised for liftoff,
thinking she’s a sea slug
on a great barrier reef,
off the coast of Florida.
Her brain is the meta-
the metaphysical tongue
of god forking across
the frangible dust of Mars.
After dark, sweeping for
a 24,000-year-old piece
of life that would verify
we had gone farther or
further than we thought.
But nothing does. Nothing
verifies or eases the knot
of asking not what
your country cannot.
The Senator is flipping
his favorite coin
and marveling at death
(the silver face of JFK sparks)
as the comet burns apart,
flicking cigarette ash out
of its coma. Like a neocon—
its ass swelling back into the past
as the brain disintegrates
over the coast of Florida.