battery life

like any poet, i am always
fighting the moon. i want to have her
over for dinner. i want to use
my phone flashlight to find her face.
in a dream, the house catches fire &
i turn into a diamond in the heat. a diamond in
the rough. a diamond in my phone
which is sending signal to the aliens
or my fbi agent again. i believe
in all conspiracies & non of them.
maybe my agent loves me & dreams of
both of us getting free. he does not have
a chance i have a partner who picks wild onions. 
mostly, i just believe that billionaires
have all devoured children. i don't actually know
if it matters to me whether that is 
a metaphor or not. does it matter if you
eat with your teeth or a machine? doesn't
the blood go the same place? i'm sorry that
was a little too much. the world is heavy.
no one wants to be heavy. as a child i was
obsessed with one very specific space fact.
after our star goes red giant & unburdens 
us all, it will collapse in on itself into 
a tight little mass so dense that none of us
could even lift a teaspoon of it. 
i imagined eating that teaspoon. i take comfort
in the notion that this burning will let us all
be furious as we need. my phone's crappy battery life
will no longer plague me when we are all 
galloping through space. still, i plug 
my personal ghost in. i run my finger
across the screen. all the diamonds. 
the moon, standing me up again, pulling
clouds over her face. a billionaire 
on my father's television talking about
how he plans to maybe stop killing everyone
but just a little bit. i love to eat alone. 
it reminds me of early covid when 
my world fit in a shovel. do not let anyone
tell you to go all red giant. you can only
do it once. i still want to see you glowing.