Squish Squash in my little, rubber, planetary boots

The world seems flat these days. The
windows in my room televise a
mountain range pushed
into an oilfield that
pumps hybrid automobiles and
ten-thousand dollar, crossbred
cats. When I walk in a circle, my
feet always seem to travel
in a straight line, on account of my
international position on
Iraq.
Nobody bothers with the moon
anymore. It seems like we’ll never send a
man back up there. I wonder
if the moon is lonely,
like a hotel that had perfect vacancy for
a billion years, then
finally got some guests, but those
few left on account of
poor room service. Take
what you can get I guess.