Mars is no Longer a Viable Solution

We lost contact with the main server

And I saw all the cars
That honk outside my apartment
Each day
Blow up
One by one

Mars is no longer a viable solution
So all the dead bodies
Will be shot out to space

They won’t reach the next galaxy
But the nearest dimension
Will likely be upset

And the tons of fantasy
That is toxic waste
Will be bolted

While reality takes over
And Barbie dolls
Are no longer sold
And impressionists are all
Sold in jars as specimens

And the world is a sick place
Where all fantasy is replaced
By life like creations

I feel sorry for the book sniffers
They’ll never get their high
Instead they’ll get pregnant

And their children
Will find new ways to create
Water falls on Mars
And colonies on the Moon

There are no more graves now
They are not practical


A Wig for the Wig Man

There is a wig maker on the fifth floor

His windows are always open
(As though he is a lonely woman
With loose breasts
Undressing for admirers)
And stray bits of hair fly out

They get caught in the mouths
Of passers-by
Who call the councilman
And complain

I live below him
And I have set up a trap for the hairs
Made of discarded plastic

I plan to give them back to him
A gift
A wig for the wig maker

There Was the Sound of Whales

There was the sound of whales
Singing last night
And of muffled fireworks
Traveling through water

I think
Upon closer inspection
I would have realized
It was a party

Just across the street
Where the light is orange
Like a dystopian thunder
Striking and contained
By a portion of the blackest
A light in a black hole
Of a coal city

My neighbours might be robots
Or servants on their night off
Or both

They have only one plant
That has survived for many years
And has been the only living thing
I have ever seen by their window

If they are in fact they
If they are not sent by some secret Gatsby
To spy on me
While I believe I am looking at them