Mythy Lucidites

Mercury trines Neptune. The wind prepares itself for shoeless visitors. My power steering fluid is leaking again. We howl from below with sizable pleasure.

"My Nissan is getting thirteen miles to the gallon," I tell Warren Auto & Tire Center, "but my grandmother is a rocket now." She died almost exactly one year ago. 

"The other rockets are jealous of my grandmother," I tell Warren Auto & Tire Center. 

For example, Rocket 1 to Rocket 2, “My engine mount — so boring — so featureless! where ‘on Earth’ did your grandma procure those strappy sandals?”

Mythy lucidites, merely observant, reflecting dusk — we don’t believe in crossposting photos to Instagram and Facebook.

Your pleasure is my pleasure, Earth.

For example, Rocket 3 to Rocket 4, “my nose cone — ugh — my recovery tube! so lackluster! so humdrum! how ‘on Earth’ does your grandma’s blushing rose continue to thrive?”

We are bright-eyed capacious pigs making room for louder voices. We are at the Tuscaloosan Arboretum, balancing an iPhone on the back of an empty Starbucks cup, taking photos of ourselves. The Nascent Imperceptible speaking with its mouth full. The newest illusion! — it’s already my favorite one. Exotic garbage everywhere! — in elaborate procession — on the move yet again. Posterity of dual mobility — humanly sized, throwing our hooves to december's bluest yonder. Or the day’s favorite cloud! — sauntering in astral limp.

We are growing suspect rooms in our titanic swine torsos, echoing uncomfortably, cosmic comics. My power steering fluid is leaking but they don’t know from where. Echoing uncomfortably above, hoping to be heard by Whom in Which Where.

Warren Auto & Tire Center, we already lived once without tongues, busy-bodies shooting the lipless unconscious breeze.