We flew out to the unknown

in a boxcar in space.

A little rickety old thing

that tutted and flew.

The colors out there

all look like old movie posters.

There’s blackness with popping colors

faded by stains of popcorn butter and kernels.

The most perfect woman in a space suit with

calculated curls and bulging red lips was

floating among the nothingness

asleep, waiting for a giant mutant,

or swamp thing

to pick her up by her trim

white wash waist.

We landed in a place,

where all the plants were electric.

You had to jump over vines dancing like

dangerous sparkling cables. The air was toxic,

and made Barbie’s blushing lips sizzle behind the

glass face of her helmet like two greasy breakfast sausages.

There were people out there, up above the trees,

who reached out longingly to

give you a deadly hug.

They were bloated

and starving,

those people out

in space. So we threw

them some peanuts and rode

away back to earth to be human again.

They are probably still out there, I

got their picture for the papers.

And went right on back

to spitting kernels

and watching

films.