EVERY STAR IS A KILL ZONE
I keep thinking many
times won't I be destroyed
and another day I think
please. I have this recurring
dream where I can breathe
fire and I use this power
to express myself. I want
to go to a restaurant, maybe
a secret restaurant. I want to go
someplace where people make
your decisions for you. I am trying
my hardest but the constellations
are an alien language. If everything
on the planet cried out at once,
even the moon couldn't hear.
You satisfy your needs one
by one, and mine cannot
be satisfied. I am not interested
in feelings. I want red mountains
and strange fogs, inhospitable
atmospheres that scar my face
or make me more handsome.
Don't describe anything to me
or else. Or else I could become
helplessly, uncontrollably more
complex. A full body skin transplant.
Neither of us is going to space
but this means more to me.
Everything I see is earthly—I will
never taste the fire of a foreign
star. It means nothing that I know
what you're doing. It is meaningless
that I see the new ribbon you bought
for your hair.
A lot of the ideas in these poems really started to click for me after I read Bill Johnston's translation of Stanislaw Lem's Solaris.