Le Subway Contleef

On a capsule we gather.

We gather 20 trillion humans.

In this capsule to the stars we gather
yondered
fields of dust and allergens,

books of bones and markets of skins.
We shall fit between
space and time here in this capsule.

Upstairs, above,
in the city plains of Earth,
they go to lunch buffets.

Cooking oil drips down to the tunnels
where this capsule runs
with the rest of humanity gathered.

Here, in this way,
all the Universe is filled in,
mercilessly unstopping.

So should we love the collective,
or should we love the lore?

Training With Koolaen, Part 6 (fantasy nonfiction travel writing)

More of my fantasy soccer travel writing for your evening, end of week reading…

KyrumFoot

By W.T. tuqMairtin, an excerpt from the novel “Povs In Kyrum”

As Kældurn and I were winding down with our stretching a trainer came up and introduced herself to me as Lo’o’toag. She knelt down by Kældurn as he bent my feet back and held my knees. “Is it ok if I touch you? I’d like to check out your muscle and tendon tension.”

“Sure.” I replied. She had a very calm presence about her. Her head was large and broad, her forehead especially. Her hair was dreaded, but short. A headband pushed the short dreads up, but it wasn’t the yellow and black headband. It was white with outlines of blue flowers and yellow stars in their center. She smelled like fresh cedar.

Lo’o’toag pressed behind my right knee with two fingers. She motioned to Kældurn to continue stretching me. “You’ve had this knee replaced, haven’t you?”

“Wow,” I…

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The Kepler Torrents

“I want to know the Kepler torrents with you.”

“The Kepler torrents?”

“The ones between Baltawn and Graesheyawn.”

“The ones in the starmap on the back of your
neck?”

“No. The ones further in … and much further out.”

“The way the lifeforms are formed?”

“Yeah, the way the lifeforms are formed.

Well hold on, yes — I guess. Kind of. Sort of.”

“Ah, so the force between objects.”

“Yes, that’s it, but I mean the unaccounted force
between objects.

I guess — the as of yet, unaccounted force
between objects.”

“Oh, so then I think you mean — love,
or the love that is greater than the chronicles of
humans.”

“Ok then, you’ve made my point — come with me
to the points between Baltawn and Graesheyawn.

Come inside of there. Come for the dead. Come
for the living.”

Training With Koolaen, Part 5 (fantasy nonfiction travel writing)

Might not be your cup of tea, but some more of my fantasy nonfiction travel writing. This is part 5, there’s 4 parts that precede it if you want to read more context. If you like football / soccer and Hemingway’s vignettes of nature you might like this — though this is probably about 1/16th as prosaic as ol’ Papa Rum.

KyrumFoot

By W.T. tuqMairtin, an excerpt from the novel “Povs In Kyrum”

Up ahead, on the trail, the rest of the players had filed back into line. They were about 30 yards ahead. Kældurn looked back, to check on me I assume. I lowered the water bag down and gave him a thumbs up. He shot me a salute back. I sprinted a few steps to tewkKyoo’ihf and the trusty waterbearer, handed her back the bag, helped her swing it over her head and shoulder, then grinned at them, “Come on, we’ve got a little catching up to do.”

We bolted forward, the team and the hills gaining ahead and leaving the city back below to the right. It wasn’t a dead sprint by any means, but probably a good solid 5 minute-a-mile dash.

“You made it, survived one of the toughest parts.” Kældurn welcomed us back.

I huffed and puffed…

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A Colossal Of Car

A giant car,
the size of 30 Empire State Buildings
rose up before the metroplex of Dallas-Fort Worth.

Holding aloft in the sky,
holding all dominion,
it towered over 1 billion miles of highway.

The highways ran left and right
as far as the eye could see,
merging into Space
and Infinity at the edge of the horizon.

Speckled here and there were signs for
AppleBee’s,
Wal-Mart,
McDonald’s,
and Home Depot.

This colossal of car held sway
and took place of the 5 million people
living down below, back on the ground.

The remainder of the cars,
that the seven and a half million people
once used,
got up and walked to the ocean.

The Greens Of Prolmama

The Greens Of Prolmama
that place by the sunglasses store on Sunset Blvd
has helped a lot of cancer survivors get that way
You’ve been that way with your teeth
to stop and turn to the mountain
it makes us look that way
the way we look when there’s just too much
Cowboys riding into the future from the past on a spaceship
or an ion generation device
They make nice clothing at least for the persons who want
to look like that
The Greens infuse my chest cavity
so I look up to see Andromeda’s aftermath
and the aftermath is ignored by all the mammals and the reptiles
unless there’s fire
we’re then drawn outward
to a journey that takes a long long time
I could count the plastic in the toy store
or a municipal dump all for an afternoon to remember now
when we kissed as men reading the Bible

 

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Alder 9 The Robot Talks With His Master

“Alder 9,
this is a mud shit mess
I tell you,
a mud shit mess.
Alder 9,
are you registering this
with yourself?
Master,
why’d you bring us here?”

“The course of resources is possible here,
according to the genetic terminus,
as the famines and wars served their purposes
on Earth
and as the Earthlings say,
and also in Heaven.”

“I wish I was in Heaven right now,
I’d go to the recreational platform.”

“Alder 9, most Earthlings don’t know
about the recreational platform in Heaven,
let’s not mention it out here.”

“Alright . . .

Look! On that ledge,
something’s moving!”

“Oh God, oh no,
up there!
It’s a bus full of school children!”

“It looks like it’s those dinosaurs and barbarians
over there.”

“Alder 9,
let’s fucking roll,
stop lollygagging around!
Move it,
fucking move it, you chintzy bastard!”

 

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Both Brains

They let him go
when he was young and dying of cancer,
drifting through outer-space
they let him go,
the last people’s race of people
didn’t own him,
floating past nationalism and liberty
as cancer an eternalness created
archetypes of the sufferer,
the fear of the shadow,
just the vessel of the genome,
we lift you up to the cluster,
the ridge of stars.
Child without childhood
reaches for your fingers,
the seven wrinkles,
your chance to perceive things

but it ran away with the forms and
words of humanness,
just the vessel of the genome,
information is transferable
in
this
standing in a field before a 7-11®,
a parent kisses their child at college
in Kansas.

They got to go to college,

wave, wave . . . waves

but wave to the abilities of Einstein,

those crackling transmissions of the
Pentecost,
those crackling wavebands of gray.

Jesus saves.
Computers save.

 

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

The Surprise Of Graymont Seeing Pinsky

With the astronaut herself
I ran up to her funeral.

At her funeral was the telling of the cliffs above Mars
and the planets around Centauri.

Her husband and children were there weeping
and
the Nation
looked on
through video channels and viewing devices.

Politicians and bureaucrats spoke about space air
and referenced the “distant cliffs” she’d walked above,
the “distant stars” she’d seen,
the t-shirts she wore,
and even the fluorescent green rain she farmed crops underneath.

When we walked up
they turned around amazed and looked up in shock.
Stricken with sweat and a pale white face,
someone spoke up and said,
“Holy Lazarus! It’s you! Captain Marsha Pinsky!
It’s you!”

“It is me indeed, Graymont.

I have returned home, Colonel Graymont.

Was this what you were expecting?”

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Slowly On The Spaceship You Finger Me

Slowly on the spaceship you finger me.

I look out to all the worlds,
I see the Orion nebula.

I realize suddenly I am a man
and you are fingering my asshole,

you are making me feel like a woman —
there is warmth and stars before us.

You devoid my heroic masculinity.
You are a woman and have a vagina.

If I was a more cowardly person
I could not admit this,
say a politician,
a banker,
or a soldier perhaps.

I take on certain things,

for this is my will on this voyage.

 

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin