If this rock…

If this rock is a walkie talkie

then perhaps I could walk my dog

gerel by remote control, a long leashless

leash tethering me in thoughtspace

to the core of the earth, ensuring

my words move continents.

If this rock is a honky tonk lowdown barefisted

harmonica playin’ jazz whiz

then the music of the spheres is not classical

but bluesy, and this here rock could be

a microphone, capturing words flung out

then sung down the rock of the ages

to the skeleton of gaia, the molten core

or hard iron teeth at the chasm center

the fueling furnace making us shimmy and spin

around a larger caterwauling rock on fire.

Only if.