Requiem for Pluto

there were nights when we
were smashed off Pluto
and tipped our brims to
lights stretched across our skins

we were not to spill
and were not to hold
what was passing through

the age and blood
and lights and piss
were sweat and tears
and endlessness

and there drenched
in perspiration we danced
on Pluto's orb

it was a land of
which scholars told to
toast and boast in
the night divine

but faded now is
such gratitude for duty
paid and played at the edge

seems our kisses and touches
and many time collisions
disappeared into the dark
and faded from solar view

The boy from Sasnak

In Sasnak, what's meant
to be forward is backward
and what's meant to be up
is altogether upside down

and round is square
where sharp is soft, the softest
folks with bluntest pokes

yet of these members
where scarce the timbers
was a boy, a young man in fact
who was born not shattered
but instead all intact

he knew the why
of the sky turning dark
and to light again

he knew the who
behind the tricks that
blinded both beast and men

he knew the how
in dreaming dreams to
make the future then

and for the time his
own life shall cease, alas
he knew the when

In Sasnak, what's meant
to be gone still lingers there
and what's meant to be still
is nowhere to be found

and the round that's square
blends together with the air
on a blank endless plain

yet though one there moves
but hasn't moved at all
the boy has seen beyond his
nose and further yet, beyond
where the wind blows

he knows the why
for giant skies to loom
over those below

he knows the who
discontent with rain,
or drought, or even snow

he knows how
to make his dreams
exist without an end

and for the time his
own heart shall break, alas
he knows the when

In Sasnak, what's meant
to be close is very far away
and what's meant to be miles
will always instead surround

and the round, albeit square
is here and there and anywhere
but nowhere and everywhere

yet distinct are its members
living where scarce are the timbers
and the boy, who has left them all
and has answered the wind
and its endless call

he forgets the why
of the blue sky that burns
from October to December

he forgets the who
of once he knew and
wishes he could remember

he forgets the how
a dream can grow far
beyond where he's been

and for the time his
own voice shall hush, alas
he forgets the when