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Drought on Death Planet

Four years later, I am parked

out front of the unbelievable

mall.  I would giggle to my

neighbor if I had one, whisper

about such an ineluctable mis-

reading.  Whispering between the

gasps and giggles.  Gasping for

further imagination, fantasy.  But

now?  Fuck it if I am not in an

old Ford pick-up.  What a truck!

My grandfather’s, which I have

driven all the way to Little Rock

(at sweet 16) to attend Chemistry

Camp (to which one has to be

nominated).  Downstairs, more

plates crash against a very

unimaginative wall.  The plates!!

There must be an endless assort-

ment of them.  “How can this be?”

I wonder, glancing at my watch

as if I’m actually wearing one,

growing a beard as if I can.

Tomorrow is done.  It’s over

today.  Yesterday the rain

spilled down until shortly after

noon.  And then, spiders burst forth

from each and every administrative

wall on Death Planet (each wall

here is made strictly of concrete)!

Orange globs of them, spewing

forth in waves like flame after

flame.         And then....?

Well,  you can see for your-

self now.  Here!  Have a look!