Voicemail delivers a feeble moan, Elecro reads
his messages. Ariadne drinks black coffee.
The stars seem more distant, today. John C
and the Spartan are locked in cellular combat.
Seeking to reedeem themselves from the
sin of racism, deep in singular meditation,
they increase their metabolic oscillations
with brittle tenacity and chemotactic sadness.
Ariadne is troubled by her feelings. The
Archive of Myth stands diminished, left
alone in mid-slump; Voicemail sings of
days bye-gone. The planet’s blue echoes
across what we would normally call a sky.
And yet, the smallest of the gas giants
has an atmostphere more Neptunian,
dominated by its bizzarre orientation.
Uranus is a stronger influence on her
mood than the distant Helios, the
nearly perfect ball of hot plasma where
her yellow dwarf feelings have recently
gravitationally collapsed to a dim, vast
molecular cloud of confounded, cow-
eyed archaelogical imagery. The
Persian bird is flying in her heart.