When we’ve terraformed the moon,
it will be an ice rink. No,
a prison. No, a hotel and casino.
The women? Beautiful
and scarce, with long legs
like polished tables. Some will be
lady robots with robot boobs and shiny
empty dispositions.
The men will have buzz cuts
and moral dilemmas. Their violence
will be justified. Nearly
any wound will be treatable.
We’ve still got to give them a show.
Some blood. In low gravity, bright
globules afloat,
coagulating in the air.
On Earth will be sterile
plazas, silver zeppelins, imperious
edifices, piss-tunnel markets, off-
brand implants, holographic
brothels—that future kitsch. Mars,
a red bauble, will dangle
and wink. Like it wants us
to take it. Don’t mind if
we do. This is called progress.
And when we’ve drafted and signed
world peace treaties,
then we will melt our weapons
into bigger weapons
and launch them at aliens. They
will have come to invade us, betentacled
bastards. The cream of us, though,
will sleep dreamlessly
through this, snug in our cryotanks,
outstripping light. And centuries
later, stumbling from spaceships, dazzled
by some other sun
we will not have forgotten
our tricks. This new world, too,
will disburse its deep minerals.
We will chisel our faces
into its rock. We will christen
its wild lonely places
with our pronounceable names.
