space, maybe’s a dumping ground for all the people we could be, a tunnel with hard liquor and cheeseballs. if you give me a moment, i may conjure my third eye, to pray that metaphysical taut gods from the New Age show me a parallel universe into the life of alternatives that we didn’t have courage for

and maybe those choices found their destiny and are gluten-free. but that’s a cowards tale of longing and stringing along a fiddle to possibilities that we fumble for in our guts. when all that’s there if you scrape the spiritual, membrane lining is rose confetti from 2010 and all them green jelly beans that festered into yarn.

yet, i’d like to believe that our helios found a way to blossom up there, even if gods down here tell us to be scared, and fidget with bibles on productivity and you-can-do-attitude and bless me, but let’s call a pleated, multi-sensory, like me, spirit and She/He/Them, and my concubines agreed, it’s a happier life as an alien.