Planet Mars & other angry red things

Drive-in, Powell WY-2The following is an exercise. My nephew has begun a writer’s group on Facebook called, The Writer’s Block, in which a challenge is put forth each week to stimulate pros, poetry, whatever flips the lid on your kettle I guess. The challenge was to write about Man’s First Mission to Mars … so I spent 30 minutes on this and let my mind wander, back to the 70’s when the Viking 1 probe was sent forth and to my teenage years, oblivious to NASA, yet exploring the land of my youth. I thought I’d have some fun with this so I approached it from a slam poet’s perspective … 

 The drive-in, a first kiss, fumbling thumbs in an old Ford,

two underaged teens with moonshine in their eyes along-side a few headlights headed their way, until the first show starts and the dome light is outright out of sight and not about to be on again until someone needs to pee or pound down a sack of buttered popped corn, and I don’t care, what Jimmy does, crack that corn all you want just ‘take me home tonight,’ and,always and for ever,’ our theme at graduation a few years later, after that first date in mom’s borrowed wagon, while the Viking 1 was all about landing on that red dusty surface of a planet without a purpose, save for that amber shade of a landing strip, stripping my sanity above all gravity, and although Mother wasn’t there to share in the pizza fare, we didn’t care, ’cause there’s monsters out and about and here’s where still we stare, with locked doors, while The Zodiac is coming back for a latent attack as the paper’s say, any day, as bus bombs and dead Beatles piled up and on Catholic presidents, lain slain, where we grope for hope and happy ever-afters at the same time this Viking ship hopes to plunder, probing its own foreign landing, hand in hand with me and the man–two different trips but out of sight still, in his tiny little booth at NASA–wishing he were at the movies too with a hand full of butter, rather than tinker toying like an overgrown boy whose remote control is lost somewhere in the dust of the dead planet’s glow, and finally, intermission, an alien emission of transforming transmission, fluids and vitals fast approaching apex, max capacity in an orbital  bird’s nest of manifest destiny, cresting on the tide of adolescent angst, filling the tank at a buck-o-five a gallon, until finally we are running and pumping on empty, simply pudding in the proof of our pubescent essence survived only by our wily lies and overextended attempts to fly, we stutter and stamp our stammering upon those in our wake, the mother and the moms which we try to articulate to in the best of ways, how we simply sat silent, like in their olden days–yeah right–when what they had beneath didn’t matter, but exploration was in our nature, our culture, and madder than a Hatter in our features of a creäture fashion built of boredom and interaction via snail mail, before wi-fi, we flew with just plain passion during the 70’s, to lay upon our shoulders a new way of seeing, and being, balancing lust without reason, testing trust during our innocent season of exploring strange new orbs, landing unabandoned and simply waiting for the bloody dust to settle about our ankles until now–please stay tuned for the following intermission–transmitting from one mind to another via the amorphous call of space, the final frontier that fronts our minds, within the kind of framework we can understand, unfettered by doubt or inhibition, forgoing prohibition till we find a place so far away, we pray, we never see the day when this will end, ’cause we have no intentions of firing up these engines again once old age removes the memories away and all systems cease and what we have is what we once prayed and paid for, idling up the line–Yes, we’re of age–the oldest phrase cast before the weak and feeble of mind, enjoy the show they say, watch the landing, the ending, the first frame of our mind, which is about to commence upon the barren wasteland of innocence which like planet Earth, was left far behind.