Notes About The Poem
Abort Switch in the Starlight will be releasing as a full song this Sunday at midnight. These are the lyrics — the poem at the heart of it — written for the explorers, the truth-tellers, the ones who stand watch even when the machinery around them groans.
This piece is dedicated to those who serve, and to those who report the news from within the military world.
Abort Switch in the Starlight
Abort switch in the starlight,
I dream of treading clay and nickel in my lunar boots,
base half in shadow, half in sun.
I can still see it.
I can still see it.
The waves rock the ship and wake me.
Two hundred and twenty-three days at sea.
Everyone looks a little gaunt, a little thin.
Empty pita wraps for supper, pilots’ voices paling over the wires.
Hard to watch for the enemy when your gut is louder than the alarms.
Heartburns, headaches, fatigue.
No shore leave.
No way off the ship unless you like treading water.
Light refracts through the port windows;
the mess hall becomes a dance hall for a moment.
Sailors move in choreography,
carrying the future of hope in their cargo pockets.
Oil-slick profits wait on shore
for word from the sea.
Heave ho, hold the line—
(Hold the line, boys, hold the line.)
Starlight riding on the brine
(On the brine, boys, on the brine.)
Feed the fire, keep the time
(Keep the time, boys, keep the time.)
We won’t let the truth decline
(Not tonight, boys, not tonight.)
Heave ho, through the night
(Through the night, boys, through the night.)
Rust-bucket still in the fight
(In the fight, boys, in the fight.)
Abort switch in the starlight, boys
(Starlight, boys — hold it tight.)
We carry the fading light
(Carry it, boys — keep it bright.)
Hotels in space, a soft place to retire —
that was the promise when I signed my life away.
But this rusty bucket skims the surface,
and I steady my gait against the bulkheads.
I dreamt I was strapped into the rocket,
stage set to ignite,
hand on the abort switch but still too slow.
Lightning strikes the fuselage —
one hell of a show.
I was strapped into the rocket, stage set to ignite,
lightning kissed the fuselage, turned the heavens into snow —
and I wake to starving sailors in a ship that won’t let go.
Hotels in space were promised, a future clean and bright,
but I’m stuck inside this rust-bucket with a fire that won’t turn white.
I can still feel the launchpad, still hear the engines glow —
but the waves keep dragging me backward to a world that’s sinking slow.
A young officer stands beside me,
eyes bright, boots new,
gung-ho enough to salute the sunrise
and trust whatever command follows.
He reminds me of myself —
built for the cockpit, for the moon dust beyond the blue.
Ready to die for an idea he thinks is still awake.
But ideals fall into comas
when the people meant to guard them
can’t eat right,
can’t think straight,
can’t steady their hands
or quiet their burning guts.
It’s one small step for man,
to feed the hope that’s starving now,
to tend the flame before it flickers,
to lift the weary anyhow.
One small step for man,
but a leap we all must find,
to keep the dream from slipping under,
to keep the truth alive in mind.
And if the moon is watching,
let it witness what we do —
men built for the heavens
holding fast to something true.
The waves may rock this rust-bucket,
the lightning may scar the sky,
but hope is fed in moments
where the hungry still stand by.
STAND FAST, BOYS — THE STARLIGHT’S OURS.
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