Merritt Island

Merritt Island

Knives can't unknot our universe

or pop its frothy bubbles gathered

into three huge red balloons hoisting

nebulae larger than our heliosphere.

Knives can't scrape the dark matter

or stab singularities,

                                        and tents can't

protect you from bears like footlong

steel can, so when I was a little boy,

          I got me a Bowie knife by mail

cause my old man thought a Scout

          needed it to fight rattlesnakes

and alligators and pirates on the daily.

Growing up on a tropical island ain't 

          like what some beer labels have,

flavored with lemon or orange: Harvest

Moon, UFO, Blue Star, and Sunshine.

Back at the ranch, crews readied capsules

for the moon. Barges brought boosters.

Dunes were off-limits since launch pads

          had crept so close to the waves you

weren't allowed to ride cause old men

rode the moon, Mars, stars: not like beer

labels will have it: Blue Moon, Alien

Wheat, Peace on Earth,

                                             cause we still

          had aliens to knife in other tropics.

Knives won't cut strings to our universe

or slice particles before they crumple

to waves or poke planets for to roast 'em

like marshmallows at our galaxy's core

—a campfire we'd rally round then sing,

"My old man's a brave old man, so they 

          sent him to orbit in a garbage can."

[persona]