Etc. 002He said the diet was simple,
It would consist of stars and chicken.
"What?" I exclaimed, puzzled.
"You know, stars and chicken." was the reply.
"Oh, like in soup, right? Uh, what is it, Campbell's Chicken and Stars."
He shook his head. "No...not soup. Just...chicken and...stars."
He smiled unconvincingly at that last statement. Shrugging his eyebrows in a 'It's a wild, wild world out there; what can you do? I just work here' expression.
I chuckled an 'oh boy'-style laugh and nodded to show him I did not hold him accountable for this.
How was he to know that, while stars were easily harvested via plasma-mining, chickens had been banned from public consumption?
After all, he was only doing his job.
South RimThe smiling, dark-haired boy,
Perched upon his haunches;
Self-effacing, with a mischievous
Spark in his eyes.
"What is your name?" I ask.
He grins and says in his tongue,
A word that sounds strong and linear,
Like a sword flashing in the sun...
And it was musical...like the echo of
Coins falling into a stone jar...
And it was an heirloom,
Like treasured spices sprinkled in a recipe,
By hands wrinkled and wise...
Nevertheless, I found my own tongue too clumsy
To follow the spiral grooves of that sound,
So I asked him,
"What do you go by, to those unable to pronounce your name?"
Again that smile, that brilliance shining from his eyes,
His entire face, unaware the depth of life inside his soul.
And he shrugged nonchalantly.
"I will call you Kenner."
We looked out on the waters before us
In amiable silence.
I remarked, "So, you must have many beautiful ladies here,
Keeping you company?"
We laughed, and he replied, "Well, it is as you say. Though perhaps
Not so grand as that."
410 GoneLong shadows begin to unroll as the sun goes down,
They stretch their legs and begin to moan.
A cold wind blows through the wasteland,
Stirring up the detritus left behind.
In an abandoned office, an old tv comes on at full volume,
Its white static ominouslly fills the room.
Somewhere in the growing gloom, a warehouse door bangs
In the wind.
Slamming again and again into steel,
As if to announce a guest of violence.
Dormant escalators remember bright light and crowds of
Arrivals and departures;
They sit and drool oil into the cold concrete now.
A used styrofoam coffee cup
Rolls and tumbles in the dirty wind,
It glides along with bits of weeds and ancient gum wrappers.
It makes a slight scraping sound as it goes along...
And I am cold and alone.
You find yourself in a gas station
Eating a burger, surrounded by senior citizens,
While Paradise City scratches from the ceiling speakers.
As you read Leonard Cohen.
Roaring BonesIn a house of rock I sit;
the rooms drifting over with windblown sand.
Rivets in a rusty tiger's mouth
He spits them into a furnace of gold
Where fire-tulips burst into a flash of life
And are gone
Their afterimage on the eyes
All that remains
Tea leaves blackened in a cyclone
It swept up the dirt path today
Cleanly ate the garden, it devoured the tender shoots
Sucking the young carrots out of the ground
Chewing the cornsilk like mossy taffy
Then I shut the cupboard
And it was gone
The flowers are singing again
They sing of the Great Wall in China
Of dynastic will to conquer and dominate
Of history and ancient blocks of stone
Quarried from the depths of God