Outer Space (or How to Get Over Your Celeb Crush!)

Some asshole in a lab-coat stuffed
a stray dog in a spacecraft and hurled
the damn thing off into the cosmos.

A disgraced actor spat up some bullshit like
“I honestly don’t remember that encounter, 
and I am horrified and I apologize.”
Then he yanked himself out of the closet,
and they yanked the mic out of his hand.

I, a moon-eyed moron, watched
a career collapse like the writing of
House of Cards, season three.
I was a shipwrecked spaceman
when I demolished a six-pack
and thought back to weird dreams
starring his hand in mine, or my arms
around him, or his weight on top of me.
I never thought to ask about his
three-headed dog or namesake planet.

Some despicable part of my mind  
slurred out excuses, such as  
what if he was drunk like me?  
what if he overheated like a dog
on a spaceship? as if either one  
would have made the whole thing  
any less fucked-up.  

That night, I dreamt of gazing at  
a starry sky, searching for constellations
instead of that goddamn pedophile.

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