Driving through the highway beaches, cutting past the expanse of concrete stacked on top of concrete over dirt and sand that will soon be concrete over staggered bricks that question when they will become concrete, Major Tom, silent, contemplative, excited, reflective and still, he marches forward through the campus to a simple silver locker with simple silver boots and slightly tightly fitting silver slacks and a perfectly cut jet suit jacket, he moves through the throngs of scientists, and analysts, and technicians, and doctors, government officials, hearing nothing, feeling nothing, but only seeing movement and controls and monitors and charts to the dizzying sun and out the door to stand underneath the sun and breathe the earth’s oxygen and grab the breeze with a silver glove hand and on to the white rocket and to the man made clouds and billows of smoke that propel the stars and stripes stamp past the concrete, past the buildings, past the four corners watching mountains, past the clouds to pierce the atmosphere and into the black with a smiling glance over the shoulder to accommodate the earthly swagger and all the pressure to hurry up to find out we’re dreaming.

Year One, One UFO

Where the Boats Go

When will you come Home


Posted by ryanwcox

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