Fragile eco-system, this world.
All pulp fiction.
Plasmadelic, wide-screen porn.
“Space tourism could soon be affordable.”
Say the experts.
“Not a second, too soon.”
Comes, my reply.
I dream of Skyscraper Escape Pods.
For “the hi-rise, in distress.”
Lifeboat, for the inevitable.
Lest we forget.
Though, we never shall.
I dream of humanity.
Carved into a cliff face.
And of Philippine landslides, that bury people whole.
But mostly, I see a man.
With a catatonic stare.
A stranger, with nowhere to go.
Like someone’s turned down the volume.
Swimming through fog.
Amnesia, of tomorrow.
And the lifeboats?
“No, not interested.”
Said the City of New York.
When offered a test drive.
Peace of mind, in an expandable cabin.
Or simply, just a Sign O’The Times?
Ground Zero for progression.
Cushion our world with airbags.
So there’s nothing left to feel, in the end.
Just like the stranger.
The boy, with the sad, sad.
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