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. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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