Ground Control to Major Tom
Where you come from is anyone’s guess,
the only difference being that you, Space Hero,
have been someone pristine and shiny with each
subsequent visit, and just look at you, O Cosmonaut,
burnt umber by the sun, golden sparks flecked off
the epaulettes of your flight suit, your skin, a door closed
to the last drip of blood. Stay! We beg you, Major Tom!
O press our flesh hard to clay, O stamp our colors closed
with your mouth! Will you remember our names, our music
the indifference of skin on skin; we sing for you, Space traveler!
O dreadwright of the first planet, O crack in mirror, O closed
eye of the remaining gods! Let us quit the world and travel
the tundra roads in wagons, drag the rutted earth, conjoin our drugs
and music in ecstatic circuses of flesh and laughter, a solipsism closed
to our most base thirsts. Our nature is defined by your nature, Spaceman,
like you, knives drawn quick to our throats. What’s next is anyone’s guess.