Tell me something true and real, she says—I
notice her fangs are
a little blunt—you can tell the cat
~ / ~
I came to planet Crypton years ago,
traveled in a sky-blue pod from Earth,
its vaporous madness left behind.
It looks a lot like Earth itself,
more crystalline than you’d expect
and everyone is strangers.
I take glyceric anti freeze,
pneumatic pericardium pills
that stop my heart from icing up,
and when the wind is thick with longings,
I invoke my Sunday superpowers.
Music plays in motors only I can hear,
turning to crescendos
that are not meant for me,
and I run with the Cryptonians
down shaded corridors,
through empty lots and past poetic afterglows.
They’re not like they once were:
although there’s still a little whining
when the three full moons shape
intimate geometry in the dreaming sky.
Now they gather for turistas,
cover their opaqueness with
designer labels, and pose for holiday snaps.
Have you knelt before the cryptographic shrine?
You really must, or this or that,
and the tourists tick it off their lists
along with never land and instantaneous truth.
~ / ~
She files her canines
in the mirror.
What a lump he is, lying in bed snoring.
He thinks I’m irrefutably invariant,
a mysterious deterministic constant,
three point one four one,
two point seven one eight,
but I’m a weather vane taken by a hurricane,
ceaseless spinning, pointing
to the gods at all infinities.
superheroes, approximations to π and e, lunar new year etc.