Poem By Jupiter Salt
Captain and pilot
in a mobile wall of moving meat
grits his teeth,
jerking intently at the controls,
rattling from the inertial discontinuities
afforded by his cockpit microcosm.
Frustrated and desperate, he cries from turbid logic
of a panicked incarceration,
of bread and water glances through circumscribed windows,
and invisible bonds of station.
Fretfully, re-establishing poise
looking out on his magnificent totem,
he nods off, to the rhythm of a distant drum.
In the dead of sleep, he mumbles
to his only friend, his captor machine,
of their travels among the stars together.
In consciousness, he remains the will.
In consciousness, the machine has no ears;
and they live thus, apart,
in a universe of difference