Getting high every day before noon is a thing
equidistant with Star Trek from the Good.
By virtue of their black solitude
both are closer than always pleasing suburban.
Viewer can inject self with opiates
or eject self from this atmosphere of alien motives,
launch toward hallways lit orange and pink,
hum of duty, film fluttering eyelids–
both are abject responses to ambition. Any goal leaves
fate always on display in the hands of another.
For want of a flight path, viewer circles,
tracing the cylinder of a teleportation beam,
shape of a fantasy that leaves in red abscess.
Viewer will choose to glide into speckled arms of night,
into repose of a spent dollar.