Em Rose


All planet Earth produces is the dead bodies of humanity—that’s its only creation. Everything else comes from outer space, from unknown regions. –Sun Ra


Hanuman, shapeshiftgod of mermaid seduction
billowed in a black-ink pin-poke constellation,
across your rib canvas. Demon-demolisher
Hanuman side-eyed as you called me Pleiadian:
a Nordic space queen, blue-blonde benevolent
galactic Aryans – nah. True sky-wanderers
don’t manifest your dusty earthling hang-ups.

Althusser reads like dreams after blowing trees
on a nightshift solo subway ride out to Neptune.
Ask me does ontogeny recapitulate phylogeny.
Nah. But: subscript, your neurons are galactic,
so twin webs named Unconscious and Ideology
are two ghost rockets who fill their tanks up
only on their own unleaded un-visible-ness.

Find links:
Spuyten Duyvil Bridge, a spinet piano, my brains,
smogged at sundown, jumped tongue and swung
sleeping shark-like, sharp, thimble thumb meat
falling bones out apart plop clunk-clinkety sink.
Full struck spoon men, moon men, cat-and-fiddling,
some wild wandering, clatter-plinketing, cosmic ink.