i should've been an astronaut
i've resolved to spend the weekend shooting
words from my backsidelike blood
beneath a suture, but hopefully without
the bedpans and soggy mess.
i will read about mars.
i will eat pizza with brendan
to celebrate his twenty-fifth year
on earth. my girlfriend calls from
halfway down the state of california
and i know one day she will read this.
there’s a picture of her on my phone,
stuffed tiger in her arms looking
unnerved in a sea of pandas.
she says she is crazy about me
and i’m relievedbut later that evening
i google the phrase to find out
what strangers think this means. every friday at 2pm
i feel strongly that i should've been an astronaut.
in the pros column, make a note that you'd never
have to iron your shirtor hide out
in the conference room eating
baby carrots ever again.
when we lose touch with ground control
i will update my facebook status.
i will bravely step through the hatch
arms out like superman on the evening
commute. you’ll see it at the planetarium.
i will slowly lose oxygen and die
in a galactic anticlimax. you’ll roll onto
my side of the bed. you’ll forget to hang
your towel or floss daily.
things i'm thankful for today include
this blue bed and artificial heat;
red boxers with pictures of clocks;
the idea of daysdifferent than the last,
and an extra long french fry that fits down my throat
forming a cubicle wall in my stomachwhere
i proudly hang old pictures of usgrinning
down at earth from on top of a lunar crater,
peanut butter sandwiches and
chocolate milkshakes in hand
Editor's Note: This poem appeared in a previous issues on our old site.
Diana Salier is a composer and musician based in Los Angeles, CA. She is the author of LETTERS FROM ROBOTS (Night Bomb Press, 2012) and WIKIPEDIA SAYS IT WILL PASS (Deadly Chaps Press, 2011) and an editor at NAP. She is wearing striped pajamas. Say hello at www.dianasalier.com.