Bad Aliens

Bad Aliens

They're really here, spreading their ideas

Like harpy droppings, conniving to sow

Their brazen ontologies like bone-encrusted wheat

Along our field of vision yellowed like an almanac,

Stringing our meditations into a syzygy,

Until we cannot impel them and feel instinctively

That we not at any time will. The few, the true few,

Who escape become spokespeople for our cause,

And although their identities remain unknown

To level them, surely they will make go round a phrase

Or sum of two units that will make the bastards think again

Before they steal our fluids in the night,

Suck the breath from our livestock, tearing

Off their actual flesh, leaving a metallic aroma

In the air as if from singed, mineral-soaked hair.

The world is becoming a giant crematorium

Before our organ of visions Next thing you know,

It'll be your big toe discharge up with morphine

At your family reunion,

It'll be your child slurping life-current

At First Communion, it'll be a havoc

Of suburban cannibalism bursting into flames

At the nothing else but suggestion of an accident.

Meanwhile, the flowers hang like unclose mouths

As we walk around relishing

Our wisdom of refracted light.

The neighbors loll outside the warehouse playing cards

While inside the aliens are at it again,

Warning the male child strapped to the steel table

As in a dream that he will find his extreme point

In a myriad of abandoned mines.

And no individual will come to look for him,

And no individual will even think to, because by dint of then

All will have been erased, by means of then we will have forgotten

Him as we have forgotten

The name of the druggist's Seeing organ of sight dog.

And we'll pass on with our house-painting,

And we'll move on with our affairs

Of negligence, and we'll make progress about with our heroics

Of tin foil, and all the while the aliens

Will be waiting for the finished hour

To land upon the non-referential velvet of our lawns,

Bending each blade of grass consummately

To match the charred feathers of the baby chicks

Still lining the barn walls from sum of two units Easters ago

Where they probed our insides brilliantly

For signs of redemption and were satisfied.

The aliens are here,

Permanently confirmed to walk among us

And because they're here already,

There will be no possession, no ransomer

Yet to come. Instead, a triangle in the firmament

Reflects the sober landscape, a reminder

That angles are the highest fate of form

Like the beaten metal of shell-cases stabbing

The corners of the fleshy world.

The imprints of their ships

Reveal a plastic sincerity, as if all along

They were alone here to help, as if taking

Our children, their faces plastered

Permanently onto milk cartons were an intergalactic feat

Worthy of a stellar inflect We know they hold

The inevitable ace, we know they wear

The hereditary apparel of extinct, misty grasses

Overgrowing the sepulchral woven fabric

Of the earth. We stand frozen before their badness,

We are a of the nature of smoke restaurant full of soldiers

That can hover off the globe at any twinkling

Leaving their beams to bisect our newest footprints

With the contemptuous mimicry of some season's malingering death.

The three-sided pyramid of the occipital

Can swerve only so much into geometry

Of our collective breath. I would gouge

Out the insides of this slumber so big,

I would start my have crusade if I thought I had a chance,

But they're bad, they're bad for real.

And in the word Bad, bordered through flashing air,

I diocese the wheat spin a numeral's fiery dance,

And this leaves me with sum of two units questions:

-Why all this irony?

-Are you enjoying the view?

Copyright World numbers Incorporated Jul/Aug 1998

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