I would have wept (had I been able)

in order to more fully feel

the grandeur, the tragedy,

the cosmic conclusion

that only a celestial body can experience…


For, even now,

reduced to neural impulses

and egocentric forces

(with too little matter to matter),

and consequently more equipped

to absorb, evaluate, and transduce

the energies transmitted throughout space;

more directly shocking, stimulating, synergizing

to what once were my synapses…


I cannot completely comprehend,

cannot assimilate all components

that transpire throughout the universe,

cannot empathize on egalitarian terms

with such phenomena as the death of stars…


cannot compensate for,

nor obliterate the fact

that once I was a man.


Distant Affairs (or Lightyears Away)


When we smoog, it is so glitchy of a thing:

to feel the shocking tingle of your static current

as you frouk yourself to discharge

is to skitterflit recklessly through the shriking steons

of the Great Void

with need of a skitter,

and to watch your tentacles fribble in the gently blowing warze

is to hear the scrooning tonks of a finely tuned gutstrummer

as it is wailed by the master Wilmz

while being accompanied by the entire

Lonyerk Semble in full marzifan.

But, when you apply full suction

to my quiescently questing mandible,

the very croots of my pulsating hergan are stimulated

to an excruciating pitch

by the exquisite smutch

of your singularly sophisticated longueth,

and I feel the stangly explosion in my expanded

sensory/intellectual/imaginative capacity

like the final pyrotechnicalizationism of a steon

as it initiates the nova state.

To smoog, to smoog recklessly, without raisondetre,

without regard to socio/political import,

or to the procreation of either of our species,

or even to the fact that we are at present

many lightyears apart in the tempisical sense,

is ultimately so glitchy of a thing.


Landing Phase (dedicated to Enterprise)


From out of the endless void we fell at over Mach twenty-five;

with an L to D of four-to-one, our descent was more of a dive.

But the stick was dead and the hull was red,

so we rode her down to the onrushing ground

and just hoped we would somehow survive.


At seventeen-thousand feet we began our so-called landing phase,

and the blessed CPU kicked in without its normal delays.

So, despite the glows from the blazing nose,

we could feel some float start around the bird’s throat,

and we sang that great programmer’s praise.


We didn’t hit much of a thermal, but then, it doesn’t matter much—

because she’s a silo with stubs for wings, the bird doesn’t have much touch.

Since her normal place is flying through space,

we try not to mind if the landing aren’t kind..

if they don’t leave us needing a crutch.


That last roll-reversal left us dead center of the glideslope corridor;

at twenty degrees and three-hundred knots, the bird is begging for more.

But the pathy lights have just come into sight,

and the CRTs swear that it’s time for pre-flare,

‘though the vehicle still wants to soar.


The horizon blazes with whiteness as the sand reflects the sun,

and we know, one way or another, we’ll soon come to the end of our run.

With hardly a sound the gear quickly drops down,

and tension runs high as we drop from the sky

in a bird that weighs ninety-nine tons.


We’ve resumed the controls, and it’s time to find out exactly what we’re worth,

for the place that we’ve been makes us feel we’ve returned to find our soul’s rebirth.

And when we anoint the long waited touchpoint,

the drums seem to roll as I say to control:

“The first spaceship has landed on Earth.”


IC Shorts  (or “Exposing Our Microparts to Public Ridicule”)

There once was a smug CPU

that figured it was human, too,

because it used hex

to talk about sex,

and expanded itself from base two.


There was a young android named Chip

whose programmer shot from the hip

with strong verbal commands

to ignore all demands

so that Chip wouldn’t take any lip.


An angry CPU name of Sam

had a volatile eight meg of RAM,

and it wanted to fight,

but was told that it’s byte

was a quasi-electrical sham.


A lonely single-board micro “C”

wanted more that in-built memory,

so connected its heart

to peripheral parts,

and today it’s a whole family!

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