Hear The Satellite Sing © Surazeus 2026 06 23 I can almost hear the satellite sing each time I walk the crowded city street where thousands of people with secret names flow in tides regulated by the moon because each brain, designed by hungry hope, is animated by one burned-out star. Every time I hear the satellite sing hymns of Orpheus to some long-dead god, I stop inside glass orthopedic frame to measure vastness of the spotless mind that blooms from serpent tooth of earnest faith, contrary to attentive cloud of fear. If I choose to hear the satellite sing while floating in bright pool of time-blind ghosts, my heart may sprout excessive wings of lust for dancing without care in field of dreams with brave defiance of my tragic fate that conjures the future from each past choice. Reluctant to hear the satellite sing about financial slavery of the poor, I walk up and down Bridge of Memories to find the weird moment in my childhood when I first saw her starless eyes of love black as the New Moon no one ever sees. Surprised I can hear the satellite sing time-fractured formulas of ardency, my wife designs new mask for me to wear when I drive our car to the Promised Land so she and our children play by the lake where faceless demons haunt the sunlit deep. Entranced when I hear the satellite sing fairy tale about the woman I love, I tell the world she is my Sky God Girl because her honest kiss makes my head swirl with tense obsession for the way trees dance since crows invent the language humans speak. I should never hear the satellite sing about lucidity my heart requires to overcome the weakness of my flesh till I become the hapless Superman who saves American from tyranny when I do nothing but sit on my porch. Inspired that I hear the satellite sing about sincerity of my brave love for the charming Princess of Aquitaine, I dance with her among the hawthorn trees, shellacked with sleet of the ethereal storm, to eat our bread with butter and peach jam.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
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Tuesday, June 23, 2026
Hear The Satellite Sing
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Orpheus tinkers with the satellite till he repairs its artificial intelligence with a new brain programmed by pastoral poetry of the English Renaissance.
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