pod number eight

at one point,
the powers that
be decided to locate
a pod full of party people
next to my control room on the
moon. needless to say, they
were loud at all hours of
the night. i could talk
to them (and have)
but it continues.

pounding bass.
drunken conversations
overheard in the hallway. a
place where chinaski would feel
at home. and they wouldn't know
that name and the poetry experiments
taking place one pod over in moonbase 12
would be beyond their grasp. nod. gasp.

lifestyle of a mad scientist poet on the
moon and the room fills with smoke and
the computer glows, reflecting in
my glasses and my eyes and
on the inside i try not to let
that get to me. but each
bass sound reverberating
through the wall reminds
me that they're not concerned
with me or this place i occupy
or the type of place i want this
already hellish place to be, and
i continue typing as footsteps
pound and i wonder when i
will truly be able to afford
my own base somewhere
maybe even a spaceship
to float through space for
a few years perfecting the
lines for the one in those
dreams...