Charlie was an astronaut
He sailed across the stars
He'd skate the rings of Jupiter
He loved to visit Mars
His suit was made of rubber
His helmet glowed bright blue
He only breathed pure neon
He loved to play kazoo
The planet that he came from
Was called Jklsipholame
Only one small Earthling
Could even say its name
He landed in a valley
And walked onto the street
His skin was green and orange
He had eleven feet
When Charlie held his hands up
(Though they really were like claws)
He could grab a distant star
(But always with good cause)
And so he met a little boy
His name was Johnny Chip
And told him that he needed help
To fix his broken ship
Well, Johnny was no astronaut
He had never been past Earth
He couldn't fix a hyperdrive
But he knew well his worth
He said big old Charlie
Who stood some nine feet tall,
"Come and stay at my mom's home
Until your planet calls"
Charlie took the boy's hand
Careful not to cut or slice
They sang a song together
From the planet of Quibrice
When Charlie used the television
To call his secret base
His helmet came unclouded
And Johnny saw his face
His seven eyes were teary
His nose was spiked and flat
He had a pair of mouthy grins
He was neither thin nor fat
Just as Johnny saw his face
The helmet went aglow
For Charlie could not bear the boy
To see him in sorrow
The officer he had called
Said in an angry voice
He would not send spare parts
So Charlie had a choice
It was about this time
When Johnny's mother learned
About the hidden astronaut
And soon she was concerned
When Charlie and she talked
He knew he had to go
Johnny tried to argue
But knew it would be so
Charlie was an astronaut
He'd sail into the stars
Upon a NASA shuttle
And then he'd float to Mars
Johnny watched in silence
And knew this was the end
As Charlie waved goodbye
And said to his brave friend:
"Of all the people I have met
On planets far and true
I have but one friend of mine
Of course, that would be you
Now please don't cry, little one
And don't you make a fuss
Don't cause trouble for your mom
And don't you hiss or cuss"
And then he did a miracle
Plucking from the night
A sparkling little handful
That twinkled with starlight
He handed them to Johnny
To put them on his wall
To remind him to act bravely
Always standing tall
As long as Johnny had them
These twinkling little stars
Charlie could still see him
Even from afar
The launch went as expected
And Charlie zoomed and flew
With a NASA rocket
And his helmet glowing blue
Many years would pass
And John was seventeen
He took those stupid stars
And tossed them as he cleaned
When Charlie looked for Johnny
He cried his neon tears
But who could really blame him
After all these years?
Charlie was an astronaut
No longer sailing stars
He lost his only friend to age
Stuck on dusty Mars
Charlie Was an Astronaut
Posted by Prester John Wednesday, August 12, 2009 at 10:43 AM
Trunk
Posted by Prester John at 12:40 AM
Take me out of
your leaf fortress
I have no use
for paper jewels
Your rhombus heartache
and paperback promise
Are not conducting
proper electricity
Smuggling little bits
of fire in your pants
You had better turn back
and splash into your nest
Enslavement
Posted by Prester John Tuesday, August 11, 2009 at 2:23 PM
the
fabric
tumbles
softly
to
the
machinist's
floor
Dawn Song of the Last Living Red-breasted American Robin
Posted by Prester John at 1:55 PM
Tweet, tweet tu-twitter tweet
The waking Illinois breeze
sinking in the jubilation that
bursts across the clouded
shrouded disc where the
morning comes unbundled
woven into the golden acres
swaying, hissing and soothing
Twah-tu-tweet, twit-tu-twah
The shaking strings of marionettes
those eagles parting kisses to the
horizon, their feathers weeping
in the rolling warmth of daylight
twinkling and dripping all around
as pastel mice scurry into the mud
pressing their feet in tiny circles
to escape their fear of death
Tw-twu, twe-tu-twee, twah-tu-twah-tu-tweet
The blossom opens, virginal
knowing not the touch of God
though her petals moistly cling
to the sweetened, humming air
her emerald stem bends and aches
she touches her neck to her brother
calling to the soldier drone to place
his feet gently on her waiting breast
Twih-tu-twih-tu-twih-tu-tweet
Two small footprints line the road
laughing and delighting as night dies
mingling together as their master
wanders into the hopeless streams
of passing time and its cruel glory
Exhibit 225: Holy Week
Posted by Prester John at 1:00 AM
Imagine that there is nothing
Beyond what you can see
There are no spirits hanging
Underneath the willow tree
Confusion and creation
Are the compliments of life
There is no other sensation
Than the coil of mortal strife
My love is swinging wildly
She is naked as a meadowlark
She waves her arms for me to join
But the skyline has gone dark
There is a trumpet blowing
The stone is left unturned
My mind has begun racing
Recollecting all that I've learned
But who is splitting firewood
Preparing for my funeral pyre?
There are platters clinging loudly
And I can hear a distant lyre
My dirty hair has been parted
They are marching up and down
I see them weaving briars there
Into the twisted form of a crown
I call down rain and thunder
I split the sky and turn it black
There is a sense of breathless wonder
And I know there is no turning back
Precious moments are tumbling
Underneath the waterfall
I cry so none can hear me
It was a vision that I saw
I sit inside the museum
Looking out of mirrored glass
There are strangers all around me
I am seated on a gray jackass
Imagine you can see nothing
Except your reflected face
Then you know why I'm demented
I've gone so mad in this place
Fortune, Torsion
Posted by Prester John Sunday, August 9, 2009 at 8:57 PM
Nothing in the world of saints is worthy to be touched
Nothing in my heartfelt horror is without its crutch
Nothing that you say to me will bury its own grave
Nothing ever sprinkled here can spirits ever save
I blame the clay aristocrats for sculpting my retreat
They engineered my Waterloo, my quiet blue defeat
My crime, they said, was amplitude, corruption of the soul
I know that they are envious of my resurgent role
Hunger is the sin of dukes who tell the world to bow
I wish to cast them into hell, alas I know not how
The scepter handed to me by the people who are free
Has broken all your barricades and halted my own knee
You tell me that you know a pope who hates my subtle groan
I'd respond he is my slave, that I command his humble throne
I had to melt his holy crown, that bold historic golden calf
I see republics slouch and rot as prefects gloat and laugh
Nothing in the riverbed is meant to finance memory
Nothing in the bloody streets can ever garner much pity
Nothing in the smoke of rifles can distort my waiting plans
Nothing you will ever do will separate or clasp my hands
Nothing Remains The Same
Posted by Prester John at 12:02 AM
Two small snow owls fall out of a nest
slugs buried deep in their skulls
Their feathers dance and tremble
in the white winter wind