oh there were days of
mailbox. the curtain
opens the mgm lion
roars. this missive
is no post-card it’s
space-dust is it
ghost dust? do
you recall mouth-
ing maps; “meet
me someplace,”
which wasn’t out-
er space or in a
cloud of extra
lazy-ass per-
ception; not
at all a trip-
py heinlein
color-blob
that spock
took acid
just to
fanta-
size.
we’re
every
last bot
of us a
message
in a bottle
biding super-
natural time
for whatever
micro-moment
taken by our in-
dividual existence,
until at the very end
we prettily wrap our
presence into a minia-
ture speck, that we
intend as an encap-
sulation of all of what-
ever it was and is that
we think we thought
we got that just might
perhaps be worthily sal-
ient or at the very least
salvageable enough to
pass along to whoever’s
coming next, so that
as we take our
final breath, we
get to witness all of
our compacted rid-
iculousness explode –
if you can call it that, who
would even notice? – into
space, leaving entropy
to take care of it from
there, with hardly
a noticeable flair,
that nonetheless
has upstaged
our very be-
ing, and in
that very in-
stant when
we are, with
fanfare, on par
with the flush
of a toilet,
down the
drain goes
our exist-
ence – and
on it is to
the next del-
usional soul.
