essay: #053: Breakfast on Pluto

 
 
Breakfast on Pluto.
Nirvana of solitude.
Space station.
Somewhere, stateline California.

Skimming the rim.
Of desert.
Of time.
Of space.
Of changing worlds.

"Your words are disjointed, sometimes."
My baby says.
Yes.
Flitting here and there.
Strokes of softness.
Between the harsh.

Diving between the headlines.
Lost in the landslides.
And H5N1 computer-simulations of pandemic.
Only ever, a plane ride away.

Lost, in tasting love.
Intimate and not.
Sharing it all.
With this.
Letter to a future.
Already here.

# transmission ends #