Author's Note: Yes, by god, it's a poem about Spock. SPECIFICALLY, it is about Spock in "The Naked Time." (That is the episode with the alcohol-virus that turns Sulu into a rapier-wielding swashbuckler and Reily pronounces himself Captain, shuts off the engines, and spends a lot of time belting "I'll Take You Home Again Kathleen" over the speakers.
I cannot say how pertinent any part of this piece is outside of that episode, for the simple reason that I have not seen any other episode of the original series since I was maybe 5 or 6 years old. Everything I know about the series comes from the inescapable Trekkie fodder littering the internet. Well, congratulations. You've got me hooked on Volcans.
Spock: a Diagnosis
Touched by the Naked Time: he is
Inverted in spite of himself.
The hollow heart spills over
in rebel disregard for the consistency of repression,
denying his face's feigned betrayal
(that he is not an article of your subscribed genetic inheritance;
your nature dictates faith in the infinite and unreachable
stars
where a part of you still reserves
possibility for the impossible,
and that is why you will never steer a course
into that part of the sky you know
belongs to angels).
The truth brings him uncomfortably close to your delusion,
disconcertingly close
to a more sinister brand of self-denial.
Even sub-categorical human nature
feels like an indoctrination of attempted suicide.
How deliciously ironic
that such notions in an unbalanced mind
only tip the vessel further,
producing one more drop of irrefutable evidence
of his own humanity.
I am a soldier.
I am in control.
Control is an illusion.
Mantra is no longer an option to purge his confirmed malignancy.
The symptoms will end with the advent of a hangover, but
the sickness is terminal:
There is no cure for Captain Kirk.