Star Trek

Every day

They paste on my forehead,

Crafting bone ridges

Out of paste and plaster

And fake skin,

Until the seams disappear

Between fact and fiction,

 

Once again, I lurch and stumble

While the cameraman shakes the frame,

And that same conduit explodes

For the hundredth time

In a torrent of sparks,

The same epileptic fireflies

Released to gleam, harmlessly.

Till Red Alert feels safe,

Like an old chair.

 

Today, like every day,

I dissolve the truth in a lie

And swallow it in sips

From my empty coffee cup

As I gaze past cardboard bulkheads

To the black matte

Of pinpoint stars

 

 

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3 thoughts on “Star Trek

  1. Ah! I want to go watch some now. Nice work–speaks well to the emotional consternation that often comes with the illusions of art. “Epileptic fireflies” is so apt as well as your mixing of image and metaphor.

    • Thanks Grace! I kind of intended it to be more actually ABOUT Star Trek, but I’m happy with how this turned out. I’m on a voyager kick again…this poem could’ve just as easily been about crippling netflix addiction, unfortunately.

  2. Very interesting. I was just doing a TNG marathon last weekend. Watching the first season, I realized anew how sophisticated the later seasons were compared to that first. But as you point out, it’s all cardboard and pinpoint stars and re-recycled plots. Thanks for sharing.

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