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Tuesday, June 23, 2026

Hear The Satellite Sing

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. 



1 comment:

  1. 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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