Mr. NASA

Big Bop, come in. You’re ascending past authorized altitude. Repeat: You are too high. Abort chill. I repeat—ABORT CHILL. Telemetry’s gone. We’ve lost ground lock. Wait—wait, I’m picking up something— Houston, this is Mr. NASA. …say bye to the ground for me. Wait—what?! Lit the blunt, the lighter said “whoosh” Now I’m floatin’ past the couch like a swoosh Microwave hums in a C major scale TV talkin’ ‘bout whales, I derail My thoughts in a bag with a snack I forgot Staring at the fan like it’s some kinda plot Shoes on the ceiling, fridge hum’s divine Dropped a thought on the floor—never mind Mr. NASA, HE’S too high to land Orbiting HIS kitchen with a juice box in hand No suit, no rocket, no plan Just sittin’ here thinkin’ ‘bout Space Jam I told Siri I was lonely, she said “same” Asked Alexa if I’m real, she dodged the game Gravity’s off, or maybe I’m wrong I blinked and the lamp turned into a song I’m wearin’ pajama pants like a space commander Layin’ down missions from a laundry hamper Ate a pop tart and now I philosophize— What if time just… naps sometimes? Transmission from the toaster: “Toast complete.” My soul exits through the window on repeat And the neighbor’s dog just winked at me— Yeah, he gets it. Mr. NASA, HE’S too high to land Orbiting HIS kitchen with a juice box in hand No suit, no rocket, no plan Just sittin’ here thinkin’ ‘bout Space Jam