Short Bio, with Lines from a Sci-Fi Cult Classic

 A spit might've been the after-
thought from some god's mouth 
or a chunk of reclaimed rock, 
but not in your lifetime.  If you 
remember what a coastline is,
it's no longer a project. You can drive
local though not on the freeway;
and sing, though you never learned 
to whistle. You've kept  ladyslipper 
orchids alive and brought a pilaea 
back from the edge of wilt, 
though you've never been 
to the Amazon. Have you calculated 
the ultimate question of life, the universe 
and everything? Hell no. You're the milk
you sniff after the sell-by date and decide
it should work fine for coffee; the wad
of paper towels you re-use for wiping 
down a couple more counters. And you're 
always attuned to the twinge in the gut 
which lets you know you're not yet 
a lesson  beyond loss, a grief beyond 
mourning. A speck of grit, a smart 
in the eye; a mouth for rounding 
a string of vowels at the moon.