julia rothblatt

did you hear the one about the day the moon fell to earth? it had a crater exactly the size of a human head on it and it landed on my head and now my head is the moon. or the one about the day a thousand lives from now when we return as a team of archeologists and discover fossils of ourselves in a former life on the day we spurned our nervous twitch and found our yearn to hint at winter bliss. on the day the stars sang the national anthem of sweaty disbelief, of coelacanth teeth, to scream loud enough to shatter the roof of a coral reef and the shrapnel ground up into paint for robin's egg colored dream and root beer float, second hand flavored drool absorbers and the words "hope" and "home" that sound the same, smell the same as the day the doe caught a sad snowflake on her tongue and melted it in an instant and it tasted like the blackhole's wild-eyed longing for light, whether from the starts that radiate or the planets that reflect it or the eyes that reflect the reflection, or the eyes looking into those eyes and seeing the reflection of the eyes, which if all goes according to plan, will outlast the universe itself.