Out among the stars, is where you’ll find my dreamyard;
this is where the little lion boy learned to be a man, to protect and invigorate his heart
with the pulsating hums of men, locked in their own, lonely thoughts
of a very particular kind of his kind, gentle, compassionate leadership. An art
that sometimes involves settling down, and putting your feet straight up
and letting me understand exactly how tender are those tender parts
of your thrumming galaxies, the supernovae that go undocumented, far too fast—
I want to know all about those stellar formations from so many ages past
that shot out; solar flares, meteorite strikes, comets streaking through my skies,
baring everything that will not last
naked, and magnificent, across distant, forsaken night skies.
Even the most lost and forsaken superclusters still have eyes.
But that is darker matter;
somewhere out here is where my egoes have finally gone to pasture, grown a little fatter with real, succulent, all-Eurasian pride;
and I know you were just hoping that this poem would also elide
the muscle.
The great, superluminary strides of trust, and pulsating might
that have allowed us all to move forward almost purely on impulse.
I know just how much it takes for you to steady yourself
when you read about what abstract has next been accepted in its own dauntless right.
I need no research grants,
no laboratories, none of Edwin Tessensohn’s houseplants;
the stars themselves are the victories.
The dust of the universe itself, is what matters most to me:
the twirling, eddying synergy
of knowing that whatever it is you tried to do to me—
I think in the end, there just wasn’t enough effort.
Not enough energy.