The impact took us all completely by surprise
for the ride of lives, unimpeding
freedom of movement, labour loves, liger laws and everything you would ever pay
to see me fly to the moon on a memorandum of my own making:
you go so fast you need to press fast-forward to rewind
the starship, back to the futures of our past,
where the man made of iron shattered the boy made of glass,
where the failures of a thousand days and hundred thousand nights
of lying made themselves very, and also a crew manifest
(not a manifesto, ISD, please understand
the difference is more than just semantics, there is no agenda, no plan)
of Others, going faster than the speed of
what might just be big damn heroes,
or stunning, Cynefin insight into something other
than the way moonlight tilts its rudders across your dazzling skin;
the way your starship slides so excellently right in between and within
tripwires, dancing jaguars,
a light made of entropy consolidated into life.
I am quing of the body agentic
I am fing made from the leftovers of time.