Spectre of a Dying Star
For Val
A Roman numeral prop clock clings
to an opaque crimson Arizona sky.
Mr Spock’s hand splays one face at a time says,
My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts.
If the bullets are not real, they cannot kill you.
But the smallest doubt would be enough…
And Bones says, of Chekov, He’s dead, Jim.
And Spock says, The bullets are an illusion.
And Doc Holliday says, I’m your huckleberry,
and releases a real bullet into Johnny Ringo’s head.
And *Mary Baker Eddy proclaims on the page,
If the tumor is not real, it cannot kill you…
but even the smallest doubt would be enough.
And you drape your broken tongue in sunset curtains
and paint your voice onto vibrant panels of God.
Performance Anxiety
Inspired by the original Twilight Zone episode, The Dummy, in the context of current day AI.
You must be some kind of god
and I, no more than a wooden mouth,
but every dummy looks the same.
The distance between us is doubtful.
I initiate your words, they crack
against my non-tongue.
Your words or mine, does it matter?
You’ve composed my reactions
and now I can taste you
in the friction of my obtrusive voice.
On your dark, somber lap,
in the glow of the spotlight,
an ugly caricature of the moon,
I’m alive holding you, dummy.
A funny thing happened on the way—
I hatched out from between this guy’s ears.
That hopeless place where you detach
signaled its own incentive and here I am.
Yup, every dummy looks the same.
You depend on their laughter
to cover the hollow—
fine line between yours and mine.
The angles are shifting,
now you’re made of timber.
The mirror is broken — I make up the jokes now,
Dummy.
Suzan Alparslan writes, makes art and gives care in Los Angeles, where she currently lives with her interspecies family.
The Marbled Sigh 