Elon Musk Mixtape

The mountain opens at a thumb’s command.
The floor is lava. Mind where you stand.
A molten coat hangs steaming by the door;
the cleaners aren’t returning calls anymore.

The calendar moved on; the suit stayed put.
Tomorrow needs a collar with some height.
First, wipe this planet’s dust from either foot.
The lunar runway opens late tonight.

Beside the launch plan, someone sets a plate.
A burger cools while 3 departments wait.
At Sugarfish, a child inspects the menu:
No cheeseburger? A hamburger will do.
Then Bryan brings the broccoli aboard.
A robot wants his shake. The cook looks floored.

Someone unfolds the manifest. What goes?
The tools. The food. Apparently, the clothes.

A truck rolls up in steel without a coat.
Its chorus puts some gravel in the throat.
Beyond the gates, the traffic hasn’t moved;
the snail’s competitive position has improved.
Below, the cutter bites and lines the wall.
The city finds a floor beneath it all.

Faster, says the bass. The small teams run.
Memphis lights the racks up, one by one.
A joke becomes a company; its name
goes on the roof. The software joins the game.
The pitch arrives already set to song;
the old guard gets a verse to sing along.

But here are 3 chairs. Here are 3 days.
A half-drawn dream has met its 1st delays.
The screen has frozen. All that cosmic light
comes down to finding what went wrong tonight.
1 feature first. Let Mars stay on the wall.
The smallest working piece belongs to it all.

The early rush made pictures without smoke;
a model number carried half the joke.
Then answers crossed the window into work:
a file to change, a fault where bugs could lurk.
One holds the thread. One tests the latest fix.
One stops to ask which future this should build.

An org chart hangs above a single chair.
The founder counts the jobs that waited there:
the leads, the figures, messages, the calls.
At last, more hands than hats inside these walls.
The work can travel farther than before.
The human has to know what farther is for.

Across the music, someone slams a door.
The sign says Open. Someone checks the list.
A velvet rope divides the waiting floor;
the songs give every grievance teeth and fists.
Their courtroom puts a diary on display.
Accusations take the chorus, have their say.
Outside, a builder waits to get a start.
Their little sketch has no place on the chart.

Put access on the manifest. Leave space
beside the word for someone else’s name.

2 encyclopedias dispute a page.
The sources wait beneath the words of rage.
Past where the copper cables failed to reach,
a child can hear what distant voices teach.
A dish turns sky into a way to ask.
The answer comes. The child looks up: But why?
Before the ship can carry us through space,
a question makes the journey from this place.

Now give the thinking engines somewhere to run.
Texas draws its circuits toward the Sun.
Logic, memory, test: the wafer’s small;
the power on the drawing dwarfs it all.
The song lifts racks and radiators high,
gives intelligence an engine and a sky.
On paper, lunar drivers throw the freight.
Below the drawing, unfinished pieces wait.

A valve. A weld. A reading checked again.
The failed test leaves a number and a stain.
3 flights fall short. The 4th finds orbit. Later,
another problem waits: bring back the booster.
Fire turns downward through the smoke and sound.
A thing built for departure finds the ground.

The impossible has a part number now.
Someone writes the next inspection down.

2 birthday choruses, a year apart.
Pretoria returns before the engines start.
55 small flames lean in the draft;
the launch-room voices find a birthday laugh.
1 trillion fills the song’s enormous claim.
The shipping list asks water all the same.

Water. Shelter. Power. Soil and seed.
The plain, persistent things a city needs.
A greenhouse on the iron-colored plain.
A window someone washes once again.
A child who hears of oceans never seen.
A song that keeps the sound of something green.

Leave room for that. The manifest grows long.
Someone has added music under tools.
The tests go with us, even where we’re wrong.
So do the jokes that interrupt the rules.
A cradle travels in the things we take:
the meals, the names, the noise our families make.

One evening, under glass against the cold,
a child interrupts the story being told:
But do they have cheeseburgers there?

Earth is very far away.

Someone laughs
and starts to explain.