Another Dirty Draft

I’ve been away for Thanksgiving, so there wasn’t any means of me posting anything new on the blog.

I’m back now, however, and I have some ideas ready to be written. Hang tight for those who care. They’re on the way.

Anyways, I thought that I would post another first draft of a poem I stitched together. It’s crude, it’s new, it’s flawed, it’s dirty, it needs a lot of work. It also does not have a title yet.

It reads as follows:

My great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandson

Will probably live on Jupiter

He will be tall, dark, and handsome

He will be the longest reaching branch on my family’s juniper

He’ll have goggles that shoot lasers out of them that that go zeuuuum

And a cool robo-leg for some reason that has a CD player assuming they still have CD’s in the future

Assuming they can hear music out in space considering it’s a vacuum

Because you can’t currently listen to music in vacuums because vacuums… suck

He’ll own a rocketship with a red pointy end and tiny round windows on the side

And own a microwave that always cooks popcorn perfectly

And have headphones that don’t tangle in pockets

And still be whistling to the tune “Home” by Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros

And finally have cars that can fly

He’ll read the newspaper

Again, assuming they have newspapers

And not cool holograms like they do in the movies

And read “Uranus Stinks. How the Gas Planet is Living Up to Its Name”

His generation will fight for robot civil rights

And the rights of illegal aliens

And when technosexual relationships are defined by the galactic supreme court as legal, then they’ll all collectively whisper under their breath, “fuck yeah”

They will kill cancer

They will resurrect tranquility

They will stop hunger

And start love up again like dad’s old lawn mower

They won’t be divided

They’ll be together like paper people chains, holding hands

There’ll be a decrease sales in rifles

And an increase sales in wall mounts

Less overcast

More nights spent on the trampoline

One double bounce away from grabbing everything that dangles from heaven

His generation will be the one to reach other galaxies and pass by stars

Seeing it all drift by through their tiny little rocketship windows with their eyes wide and baffled

And then they’ll be amongst the stars like their mamas wanted them to be

Finally,

Both literally and figuratively

They will approach new planets larger than life

And then

Their bodies will feel the magnitude of God

Or,

Feel smaller than mustard seeds,

Their faith escaping through their gaping mouth like a hot breath on a cold

December morning

And lost in the emptiness of it all.

They’ll have a scary amount of knowledge

And who knows how frightening it all is

My generation owns a garden

In the Spring with the flowers ready to blossom

Budding.

That beg to be kept watered.

-H.G. Salas

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