How Dragons Are Not Here.

I talk about dragons in books; and books rhymes with nooks
And everyone hates me because I am a strain, and my voice is
Like a crocodile and I have sharp teeth and the bones melt with bones-
Sometimes, things are broken, and promises are made, and people
Weep, and the canyons are deep as oceans-
Sometimes, I do not know where the canyons are made, or why
They are made, only they are there, only the opinions of things
Are driven out of the land like coyotes, and some Americans
Do not like take-out food, especially not Canadian, French,
Canadian Bacon-I think I like oranges on certain days; I think
I like this or that; and the snow falls down on the Himalayas and sometimes
I look for Big Foot or someone else, someone who is not quite so simple
In his words, or for men with big trucks and yellow gardens,
And how they sod the fields, how they grow corn-some of the corn
Is shaped like diamonds, and some men break their backs on them;
Some of them are tall; others are short; others are like children in their way
And as ghosts; they tell me I cannot speak for them, but I end up writing
About them, how they troll, how they move, and their movement is simple
Like the tides are simple and the ocean is larger than itself-
And how wallabyes look up to us and badgers look up to us and the sounds
Of summer is larger than our eyes, and my teachers expect me to pick up
Their paychecks and not spend it; and how Mr. Millan, the man from the Bronx,
Was shot at the grocery store and he had a limp and it makes him cry every
Night, including on weekends-I do not know about words, only about the spelling
Of them; like the Spelling Bee I won in sixth grade.
These dragons are kind of sort not on my heart or mind and I am forced to realize
Something I have come to know,
That humans are not humans at all, just plants, maybe, like talking trees,
Or words that come out of books, and birds sing their song,
And I am paler than lightning, and lightning is quick and brown and moves like
Sand-
That some sands rise out of nothing, and nothing has become of it. I tiptoe this nothing,
And people don’t want to hear me speak. I ask myself why, and thoughts
Linger in the dark.

THE DISTANCE IT TAKES TO ZEUS.

THE DISTANCE IT TAKES TO ZEUS

The two moons were strange and distant.
Professor Heglic Mangdogulas studied them through his telescope, and frowned. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The robot, Radical, spun around and around in circles and went over to him, tugging on the end of his lab coat. “Sir,” he sputtered, shaking his head. “Sir, what are you doing?”
He got up. “Looking,” he replied shortly, shaking his head.
“Looking, for what?”
“Stars,” he said, smiling.
“Stars? What stars?”
He scowled. “Didn’t I teach you this already?” he demanded, shaking his head. “They are big balls of burning gas.”
“How big?”
He spread his hands. “This big,” he answered. He smiled, cocked his head to look at him. “Bigger than the Moon. Bigger than the sun. I think it shines in June.”
“Or smaller than the sun,” the robot said, he shook his head and clicked his tongue.
“The sun is cold,” said the professor.
“The stars are colder,” a familiar voice replied. It was the same “person” as before. The robot.
The professor smiled at the computer on his desk. “Contessa, my love,” he purred, blinking. “How are your lug nuts today?” He patted the computer. It was a large computer. The window of the computer was a black face.
“Fine,” the computer answered. “I’m a little tired, though. I was chatting all night in some stupid chat room, and this man called me a Dreamer.” He chuckled. “It was funny. We had a good laugh about it. He thought I was a woman.” He laughed again.
“You’re weird,” the professor said, ignoring him.
He shut off the computer and lumbered out of the lab.
The computer sighed and shut himself off. He drifted off to sleep.
The next morning, the professor returned to the lab and looked through his telescope again. The stars were bright in the sky; but were brighter during the day. He saw something in the sky. It was coming increasingly closer. Closer, still, until it was right in front of the lens. He thought it was a bug at first, and reached out to swat it, but realized it was a star. He reached for the phone on the desk-the computer giggled-and called NASA. “Shut up, everybody!” he hollered.
The computer quieted.
“Dang,” he said.
“NASA, this is Professor Heglic Mangdogulas,” he reported. “I’m at 54; 51; B12, in the Eastern sky. Time is four-oh-clock. What is it?”
“It’s a new star,” the operator sounded surprised. “Good God, man, it’s a large one, too! Do you want to name it?”
The professor nodded. “Sure,” he said. “I want to call it Zeus.”
He snorted. “That’s a dumb name,” he said.
“Should I pick out another one?” he asked.
“Not really. I just penciled it in.”
“But, you’re using a pencil.” He frowned in confusion.
“I said, not really. Good day, sir.”
He hung up the phone and resumed looking out of the telescope.