A pointless unnamed human
was locked in stasis by Célia,
an interstellar traveler
who has a name.
A week and forty years pass by
in a single line of text.
The stasis ends, and one apartment block
still stands on planet earth.
All around a glassy plane, vitrified
by a nuclear potter,
reflects a reddish light,
and the sky is bleeding sunset’s colors
at every compass point.
In their apartments, occupiers
awaken from a dream—
an invisible prince
and post-apocalyptic kisses.
They gaze outside, beyond their window frames,
and turn away,
choose blank screens hanging on the walls,
press some buttons while they wait
for bars to wake on mobile phones,
for salvation or an ending.
The final season has arrived.
The nameless one goes down the stairs
to where the ceaseless westerlies
are blowing, stirring up the dust
of civilization’s powdered marrow.
With balsa wings and roller blades
he sweeps like a sail before the wind,
eight years old again, made whole again.
go flying by,
and still he skates,
until a sudden burst of fireworks
showers from above,
and a curdled light descends.
It might have been a stranger,
but it’s Célia.
So tell me,
how’s it hanging?
Now your planet’s
an unlivable hell.
I wouldn’t say ‘no’ to a coffee.
There’s coffee on the crayfish moon,
in cafés by the shore.
You might travel in the luggage rack
of my photon cruiser, but first
I have a question:
Will you listen closely to my
You’ve forgotten my holistic vision.
I can see your fingers
crossed behind your back.
To be continued. Whoopsie, the poem and the world were supposed to end. But only the latter did. A latter used to live in a burrow in my backyard.
balsa wings background
Repeating a comment from two weeks ago, I spent a lot of time indoors because of illness when I was very young. Fortunately I recovered, but back then my wings were pages of books. Tamaya Garner has created that little boy’s dreams and kindly made her work available. Here is more of her impressive artwork and writing, and here is the dream of pages:
I added a direct contact link for myself and the wood ducks in the right-hand menu, for no particular reason. Perhaps someone wants advice on magnetohydrodynamics or what to do if their photon cruiser has a flat tire. If you’re using your phone there is no link on the right—that’s “reality” on the right of your phone, hopefully a cup of coffee.
the final season abstract pastoral (detail above): a frozen, poisonous, and unnatural season that will not appear on many pizzas.