Fourteenth Entry

The number fourteen has always had special significance for me. But the story behind that isn't very interesting.

Here's my poem:

DID YOU KNOW YOUR LAST NAME WAS AN ADVERB?

The motion of the adverb is that of the plate spinning on a stick.
Motion is equated to the sea that now holds the heavy weight of analogy.
Is “going” down with the ship a punishment, or a guarantee of martyrdom?
Going on that theme, I’d like to talk about how silly sailor’s uniforms are.
On my planet there are no oceans and so our boats just lean against the walls.
My fingers walk along the unused sailor’s knots like a make-believe little man.
Fingers often point, but more often hold and move objects like a mouse does.
Often I complain to my second mate about my slow dial-up in the Indian Ocean.
I am captain of the Hammurabi, a spaceship light years away from being interesting.
Am I boring you? I will often ask my multi-cultural crew, who often say yes.
I launch into a rant about how our duty as space-sailors is to be diligent, not excited.
Launch control, is David Bowie there? What’s he wearing?
Control Q doesn’t seem to do anything at all, and neither does my body while I’m typing.
Q appeared on Star Trek when he wasn’t helping James Bond. We watch a lot of movies here.
Appeared out of nowhere, a giant asteroid shaped like Mark Bolan says my captain’s log.
Out of the blue I wished I had never left my home planet for the navy.
Of all the professions I would have chosen, I’d like to write poetry about space-rock.
All the planets collide suddenly and I feel like that kid on James Cameron’s Titanic.
The feeling you get when you’re so full of yourself you don’t look out ahead.
Feeling like an ass, I go below decks, and read the newspaper reports about myself.

Myself, I don’t really feel like firing phasers at anybody, war or no.
I felt like they used too many adverbs in calling me ‘the wussiest space-pirate.’
Felt is what our uniforms are made of, and we still wear those goofy blue neckerchiefs.
Is it true that Brian Eno wrote poetry? Or that he spun several plates on sticks?
It seems to me Roxy Music was the only band deserving to be launched into space.
Seems like I should get to the deck, in case that asteroid starts singing ‘Planet Queen.’
Like on Planet Queen when the emissary gave us chiffon gowns and ‘physique’ magazines.
On assignment to the planet, we were confused with natives because of our gaudy uniforms.
Assignment: each crew member must write ten sonnets on solar systems or glam bands.
Each asteroid we hit makes me look distractedly at my fingers and think about my youth.
Asteroid is one of the movies we’ve watched up here, but I can’t remember the plot.
Is that all I can remember? Movies we slept through while sailing the skies?
That was a little florid of me, I try to be a much more prose-sounding poet.
Was Not Was wasn’t glam, I correct the helmsman, they were new wave.
Not like anyone on this ship has any taste for the finer things aside from me.
Like a snobbish teenager, we drift light years in the dark without asking for directions.
A wiser captain might email for help, or hail the klingons like in that movie.
Wiser perhaps, but this mythical captain probably doesn’t even know who Jobriath is.
Perhaps I should just fling myself off the deck like Hart Crane and be done with it.
I wouldn’t know. I’m no good and writing sailing metaphors anyway. Let’s watch a movie.