after Johnson
I want so badly
to be humble before something,

but I am humble
before nothing.

Want to look into the sun
so long it reveals the thousand faces,

bellowing echo of chorus-voice
singing see me and live in awe.

But nothing—like throwing a brick
into a lake, no skipping, just falling—

dizzy from the sun, closing my eyes,
a burn-hole in sight—

the sad realization of hollowed out sky,
and friends, I am here to tell you:

There’s a pocket in space,
the abscess of a rotten tooth—

and here’s the bad news—
we’re hurtling toward it.

Nail your feet to the earth
and feel the hot wind of its momentum.

Of course, it’s not worth it,
but I’ll recite a prayer—

when we hit that black hole,
let us race through, a comet on the other side—

from a light year distance, 
a white astral lint string

to the eyes of warm, welcoming
selves from another universe.
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