Team Saturn

“Outer Space” begins with close-up shots of Saturn’s iconic rings, then zooms out to show them whirling in space like a gigantic cosmic buzzsaw. Some of Saturn’s many moons occasionally zip through the field of view as they journey around the huge

And then it all hits me, like the rings of Saturn spinning for the god who it hath been named for: Why try so hard when it's all for naught, when all I need is some milkcubes and a bottle of popecologne to make it through these harsh spring nights, when the breeze is so light but the weight of these rings on my shoulders is so unceasingly heavy. Cubicle walls. Turkey burger from Louis each day for lunch. Tavern for beers, never puts hair on my knuckles, try as I may. Menu never changes, except on Jamaican day and that day when they have sushi. And the friends they say will crop up like mushrooms after a rainfall instead filter up like worms after a rainfall. So I wait, pathetic, apathetic, an apostle for all that is Saturn. The word is my shepherd, I shall not want.

Open up the yaw of the drink-bored, the song of the callous, the foreskin of the visceral, to a place where these thoughts can coalesce into a soup of noodles and fried prawn. AKA: a delivery that never arrives, a thought that never forms, a revolution that no amount of fomenting will ever bring to fruition. These are the tortured tasks of the tantamount-to-trusted, the terrific terrors of those that try to taste but instead are tethered to the tableau a tad too tightly. So I say rise up, rise against, rise in the morn to arouse the better demons, the worse angels among us and put something down on a page, or pick something up with our hands and make a farce of it all. As though it were all so simple, as if laziness were nary but a care for the dead, who will never make a go of it again. We say we'll make these advancements, make amends, reach a new status that won't drain our very essence.