In a little known
sci-fi, X the Unknown,

the crazy earth
begets a tiny fissure, a birth-

crack jagging the salt mines,
which means

trouble. The Scottish army men,
perplexed in the rain,

debate in huddles as the fissure grows,
as the gasses continue to rouse,

as the earth begins to gurgle.
They debate in awful, deadpan dialogue

if whether what they suspect
of the fissure’s true: mightn’t the fissure reflect

themselves, a sort of side-effect, be their own
selves opening, their heretofore un-

spoken kink,
buried so in the 50s, now welling up in a stink

of black tar and mucus
pooling the surface –

this is, after all, the Age of Otherness
and thus

of self-reflection.
Hey men, one man

announces, let’s send Lansing forward – Lansing,
sole dandy among

their ranks. Though in my warped, blown VHS,
it sounds like they’re yelling Nancy! Bless

Nancy for loving the state! For being so willing
always to reconnoiter, shuffling

out now across the barren crust: Careful
there, Nancy, to not fall

in! Don’t get too close

there, Nancy! But this being
the Age of Mishearing,

of course, Nancy always does.