purple frigates crash
into foothill silhouettes—
some slip behind,
compass heading east
trailing a damp cold front.
up the road, spotlight
to a heavy bass beat
for something to kill,
something to eat.
The future descends upon us
with new magic for old maladies,
like the greed and lust for power
science can’t dissuade or make
invisible, can’t deport to asteroids
spinning towards black holes in space.
Not even the best Boy Scouts
can be prepared for tomorrow dangling
like a spider from its thin filament
waiting for the wind to move it
towards fuzzy, unknown realms
where human nature remains the same.
artist: Chesley Bonestell