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.