Astro-naut (a mission accomplished in theory?) by Vicki Miko ~ 2021
In the foamy firmament above the mattress mass next to the nightstand, the appointed crew swarms in their random entropic lightship. The Boson nightshift crew is on a secret search mission to eradicate the various astro-nauts: the astromites, nautcrawlers, lintjumpers, and dead arachnids.
Armed with their Electronit-seeker equipment, the Bosons quickly ally with a Lepton vacuum cleaner, a standard model, guaranteed to suck up anything from sock pills, web festers, to pocket spinning neutrinos. The Bosons can easily view the vacuum’s searchlight: its lasered filament pulse strikes dead-on any foes’ tronic-matter.
Approaching the Karman fault line, the Boson crew defines their calculated split, where recondite astro-nauts begin to scatter, dive, and flatten at the sight of the dreaded looming Lepton’s nozzle.
The manic astro-nauts try to escape the crew’s frantic yet nebulous entanglement. Myriad muons and taus attract and coalesce and stick-thick in the Boson’s glue. The infused Electronit-seeker, dull-jumps, zings, and wobbles across the floorboards in a mission to confuse and propel the astro-nauts toward the brush-sweeper magnetosphere.
In theory, the Boson nightshift crew versus the astro-nauts, exist to seep into collider frequencies; where they both flit in and flit out of existence before the dreaded vacuum cleaner nozzle sucks them all into another black hole.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Old Hennessey Bridge by Vicki Miko ~ 2019
In the early evening sunlight the iron planks over Old Hennessey Bridge, cast jail-bar shadows on the riverbank—a fearful illusion for those sojourned there: the waywards: free of charge, obscure, perishable, beneath the trestles. The rundown backstreet leading to their hidden path backs up to the pumping station, abandoned shopping carts, and assorted dumpsters.
Under the bridge’s refuge, the stink of tar and urine floats up on hot dampish nights. Some of the dubbed leaders take turns keeping watch: from the top, from the bottom, from behind, from sideways. Chasing their own eyes, the foreboding ones make up for the oblivious.
Reduced to a basic fate, the wayward lot seems to be guilty of bad luck, a chance stolen, pain, genes, or a choice ignored. They are in a place where a next day offers more nothing—nothing begets nothing. Fitting sometimes of this place, Old Hennessey’s, Midtown. Or maybe not.
Midtown came out early with its friendly aura and cleanly guise. It later devolved to ugly stares, look-aways, the phony, “God bless you,” and the soulless, “Get a job.” Midtown, a place of mixed kindnesses, false beliefs, and weeping pepper trees. Yards of backstreets merging into ample manicured neighborhoods where neighbors are aloof, friendly, or giving, depending.
Yet, existence can continue quite undisturbed in the encampment under the bridge—extending over weedy jasmine and bulrushes along the riverbank. Like modern sculptures the patchwork blots of primary colors and faded gray are kept camouflaged along the path. Makeshift add-ons, demarcations, scrawlings on the buttresses with anti-everything—mark the territory.
The Midtown uptowners brave enough to stroll the evening heat above the stained abutments, don’t always notice much beyond their preoccupation of daily-meshed concerns: potholes in front of Lady of the Lake, Old Hennessey paver repair, the annual John Deere mower sale, those charitable kids who sell candy bars to stock the Midtown Library. Fitting for the uptowners who favor a river walk in upper mid-town on a hot dampish night.
A festival of daytime Midtown uptown residents can be seen at the farmer’s market on Fifth Street, where they mix with the other-lookers and out-of-towners. They engage or ignore the waywards who drift far and close. Mixed with friendly repartee, the street tribe’s caution can delay any would-be handouts. Luckily, for the after-dark waywards, there are always those lovely dumpsters: abundant with choice watermelon, soft tomatoes, and hard bread double-packed with a bin of near-rancid honey butter.
Once again, the day recycles to the early evening sunlight. Those jail-bar shadows on the riverbank are transformed into cubistic arches—more soothing to the shame-ridden waywards. They wait for the night to take the baton when Midtown streetlights illuminate a changed effigy. Or maybe not.
How do the some rally their hope, as they climb down the trestle path with bags of treasured somethings? Does the mascot mange drop his nightly stash of a half-full Snapple bottle, a punctured ketchup pack, and a soleless tennis shoe—in hope for a playful fetch? Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe, at last, the some find a resonating comradery at Old Hennessey Bridge. It is prized property for those who want to rest a while, to feel the land, to feel the air—to seek sunlight on their faces and a means to keep on. But some hoped for a sign—Welcome to Midtown—it said. Maybe in Midtown they can still find where they are going.