Postcards from Outer Space

I
Burn

On the plain of accretion, vast and tiny,
jots of life jump an orbit
to reach for another rock.
But those blips will fade as fast as they flushed.
There will be no migration through the solar well.
Space & Time may warp and trace
a roll-around of stony mass,
a far flung cache of heavy gas,
all at the mercy of nuclear fire
intent to render our fat to fuel.
It all decays to gas and oil—
we are what we burn, we burn.

 

Red Eclipse

The moon bleeds as the shadow cast
embraces all of Earth’s dealt death.
War & wars swallowed its light,
spit blood in the face of that howling stone.
Reflecting the darkest side of night
onto the deluge risen sea,
declaring itself a crimson pledge
equal to any rainbow’s regret,
like signs and portents on the evening news
it’s just another bite of sound.
Safely framed in the broadcast box
until it finally flares and fizzles
into another extinction event
for creatures of little, if any, account.

It’s just the moon wearing a mask,
pretending to be the god of war;
redder than spells & epitaphs
conniving as Babylon’s whore.