Bianca Stone



The Other Truth About Brains 


God formed man of the dust of the ground,

breathed in the breath of life—though

unto his brain he stretched a horn.

Good idea. I am a rhinoceros of thought.

But I want to be like the jellyfish,

biochemically complex,

or a sponge without any nervous system at all.

I am sad. In the pockets of Detroit,

GM has employees driving cars away.

And the lots are empty

except for those radiant puddles

of fluid, as if the cars wet themselves as they went—

afraid or nervous or perhaps hostile.

The sponge can grow back where it is broken.

I can, too. I eat cereal all day

and grow everywhere like a bush.

The stomach is the brain’s dumb buddy.

Tell me something useful right now.

I am a free-floating mammal

under the budding medusa of the frontal lobe.

I have a lot of good ideas.

I write them down. I should patent them.

I smell tangerine

on the tips of my fingers—

It is the brain’s good advice to smell this.

Eat of this, the stomach says.

And the brain is a naked old man

crouched in the skull, growling back:

I have meat that ye know not.


Brief Communication with Earth 


We have some sad news

this morning from Mars.

The robots are silent. They want

their astronauts back. Send

anything you can, chocolate

or wool socks. It’s bad.

They’re playing SimCity,

eating freeze-dried toast,

shitting screws and springs.

The bald volcanoes make terrible 

views. These are machines,

not men. They need their parts

rubbed with oil. Send what you can.

A dwarf star hangs

like a bulb ornament

just on the horizon.

The planet is blushing furiously.

The robots are listening

to the Phoenix DVD,

Orson Wells—tricked again.

They’re listening to a hundred

names being read, slowly.

Send more movies. Send

women. Get us out of here.