This Passage Spans 13.7 Billion Light-Years

In the grand schemata, you are words in this stanza. In your grand scheme, there is nothing so cosmic like the flings on your strings. If I were flung carelessly like a star across light-years it would be the pinnacle of a civilization. Most don’t go this far however, although you did. You went beyond the end of this piece. Outside the observable universe. Leaving the interior dark. I still shine, casting shadows over what you did.

Listening Post

When the city is too small
for the heart, a walk in a bar is
travelling the horizon of the moon.
Each crater a landmark of progress
but in the same shade that is
unreliable since you circumvented
twice. If craters were large enough to
contain our warmth the universe
compensates by echoing loneliness –
Still, no one can hear the moaning
or the smell the alcohol that clogs
the futility of memory, the taste of
names that spill off your glass onto
the lunar soil. The next civilization
will question the evidence, likewise
aching for why aren’t there more.


Time is a train I keep missing, my
ears plugged into interstellar nadir,
waiting for any radio signal, waiting
for music not my own, someone
out there to collect me to find me
in a universe of abandoned cities filled
with bartending algorithms to serve
beers and not people. Now I have a glass
of poison that warms skin and toys with
hearts, its froth glittering like civilizations –
Even if we too stopped blinking surely machines
will evolve to pilot a train to send me anywhere
but home and warm bodies, and time will tell
everything we don’t have the answers for, like
when will love be a star that isn’t so far away.