deepundergroundpoetry.com

Elon Musk is a sexy son of a bitch

It’s 11 a.m. at Rusty’s    
in Port Canaveral.      
I’m watching the      
Falcon 9 get      
refitted between      
missions.      
      
Every chance I get,      
I stand outside,      
eyes turned to a      
clear horizon      
       
and watch pure sorcery.      
       
We.      
Tiny little creatures      
with no claws or canines,      
no biological advances      
in the natural order,      
we alone,      
have unraveled the secrets      
to touch stars;      
and I can’t understand      
why so many people      
don’t look up.      
       
Why they don’t      
stand thunderstruck      
until their eyes      
are cracked and bleeding      
from      
opening      
too wide.        
       
I also like watching the rockets      
come back to port,        
a testimony        
to our ability to reach heaven      
and come home        
transported        
on a ship      
with a cheeky name.*      
       
And I like staring at      
the rockets.      
       
I just like it.      
So I come here        
when I can.      
       
The top of the rocket      
is permanently blackened      
from the combustion needed      
to separate the payload      
from the base.      
       
I’m the only person      
on outside dining area      
tweaking out      
about the      
way the 9      
stuck this last landing      
       
and how fucking      
amazing it is that we      
can transcend      
our terrestrial legacy      
       
that we can transcend our      
terrestrial legacy  
   
       
Just like everything in my life now      
this quiet moment      
didn’t pass without      
you.      
       
Because I like staring at you, too.      
So I come here when I can.      
       
Every chance I get,      
I stand outside,      
eyes turned to        
your        
clear horizon      
       
and watch pure sorcery.      
       
We.      
Tiny little creatures      
with no claws or canines,      
no biological advances      
in the natural order,      
have unraveled the secrets      
to touch stars      
and I can’t      
look away,      
       
thunderstruck        
       
by what you are      
by who you are      
until my eyes are cracked        
and bloody tears      
drop down my face.      
       
That you can transcend this      
terrestrial legacy      
       
that you can transcend this      
terrestrial legacy        
       
Leaves me permanently        
blackened      
from the combustion needed      
to separate the fuselage      
from the base.      
       
And I’m lost in        
testimony        
to your ability to        
reach heaven.      
       
     
Written by Betty
Published
Author's Note
*The drone ships that recover the Falcon 9 boosters are named “Of Course I Still Love You” and “Just Read The Instructions." All of the ships in the Space X programs have snicker-worthy names.
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