It Came From Space

 

It came from Space,

landing in a New Jersey farm field,

a tubular spacecraft, devoid of windows

or discernable doors, but emanating

a singular golden yellow glow.

 

The citizens, with mixed feelings,

approached with pitchforks,

torches, Bibles, Geiger counters,

x-ray specs, long sticks, and suspicious

contempt for this newly landed

craft.

 

A rumble at the crash site,

shaking the soil and twitching the

trees, as the spacecraft, opened

a large bay door, spilling more

bright light into the New Jersey night,

the citizens shielded their eyes,

dropping a pitchfork or two.

 

A being, of matter and light,

glowing yet fading, emerged from

the large tube, luminous and flickering,

with gentle waves of mass rolling

across it’s surface. Slender arms and legs,

moved languidly forward from the craft.

 

“What is it,” mumbled Sheriff John, his eyes shimmering in the glow.

“A spaceman,” said Mrs. Carter, breathless with awe.

“Whoa, Whoa, who are you to assign it a gender,” said young Polly.

Polly with hands on hips, a confused, yet accusatory look in the eyes.

 

“Well, I mean, I’m from a different era, they were all called Spacemen then,” said Mrs. Carter.

“I don’t see what authority you have, even if you’re from a different era, to just arbitrarily assign a gender to this being,” said Polly.

“I don’t think Mrs. Carter was trying to incite any disagreement here. Just a…a turn of phrase,” said Sheriff John.

“Um-hm,” nodded Polly.

 

The being stretched its long arms out

over the faces of the gasping crowd,

a benevolence emanated from its kind looking

yet Rorschach face, a feeling of calm

rolled in waves. 

 

“Shoot it,” shouted Jerry Bob, “shoot it because it’s different!”

“Now, now, Jerry Bob, we don’t know why it’s here,” said Sheriff John.

“It’ll make the kids gay,” shouted Jerry Bob.

“I don’t think that’s…,” said Sheriff John, now trying to corral the crowd, but he was shouted down.

“Does it believe in God,” asked one far voice, “is Jesus it’s personal savior?”

“It’s got science stuff, it’s the devil. The Devil I say!”

“Let’s rush it!”

 

Sheriff John looked at Polly for a little help.

Polly shrugged, “They haven’t assigned a gender so… I’ve got nothing.”

 

The outer space being’s glowing skin

began to ripple and change,

like deep sea cuttlefish,

the previous wave of calm seemed to mirror the changes,

the townsfolk turned to each other and

projected their suspicions towards each other.

 

“Johnny Welsh is gay,” shouted Mr. Peabody.

“Hey, I told you that in confidence,” said Johnny, “you said you liked it.”

“Ms. Leigh is a murderer, she killed a kid in college with her car,” said Sam the mechanic.

“Well, Sam records women in the bathroom of the garage,” said Ms. Leigh.

“I lied about having cancer, it was just a rash,” said Sven, “took all that fundraising money and went to Vegas.”

 

Sheriff John shook his head.

“Can we focus on the being from space please,” he asked.

 

Polly pointed at the space being.

“Look, it’s leaving. I think it just gave us a… a middle finger.”

 

“I knew Spacemen were going to be jerks, elitist jerks,” said Jerry Bob.

“Really,” scolded Polly, “Again with that.”

 

The being got back into its tubular spacecraft.

The glowing light ceased, and the vehicle phased in and

out of sight until it was gone, leaving a smoking

crater behind.

 

“Damn it you guys,” said Sheriff John, shaking his head, ripping his hat off his head.

Polly looked at him sharply but didn’t say anything.

 

 

A Duel

 

Their swords clanged against one another

as the combatants clashed around the

Medieval stone banquet hall. 

Sparking steel sabers blah, blah, blahing…

 

I’ve been having a hard time

writing much of anything lately

and I think it’s because I’m nervous

about the future.

 

I mean, I’m already terrified of the past,

but at least I know it can’t hurt me,

and I can write about it with a nostalgic twinkle

in my eye; but the future, it unnerves me.

 

I once looked forward to

flying cars and space exploration

as the logical progression of humanity

based on our commonality

and desire to grow. To learn. To be better.

 

Now I feel a future in which

people aren’t shitting in the streets

might be too much to hope for.

My optimism has been cruelly tempered

by scarring skepticism.

 

I’m nervous about the rampant

language of hate, suspicion and

wild leanings toward theocracy and

despotism under the guise of the

“will of the people”.

 

I’m uncomfortable with how

uncomfortable it makes me feel

and how scary it is that a free people can

be coerced by fear mongering and

whataboutisms.

 

I’d like my flying car please; rather than a sword.

 

“A sword fight to the death,” shouted Sir Knight.

“To the death,” agreed the Black Knight.

 

“Clang, clang, clang,” their swords echoed

through the drafty old chambers of stone,

into the long night.

Protest Song

 

In honor and in solidarity

with those participating

in the Writers’ Guild Strike

I would like to submit

this:

 

Banana Legs

 

Igloo Chasing

 

Hot-Dog Heart

 

Manic Subtleness

 

Ah, feels good to add to the

Zeitgeist.

 

 

 

I Don't Want to Sing the Blues

 

Most of what I have written,

as of late,

has to do with my bewilderment

and anger,

at some of my own… kind.

 

Which I’m hesitant to associate

with since they,

do not resemble in any shape or

form... my kind

of people.

 

I’m annoyed that my own writing,

has to reflect that bewilderment.

I’d rather write about love, and sex,

drinking till four o’clock in the morning,

and dancing in the silvery streaks

of moonlight.

 

And yet, every day, I hear something

new, about the dastardly deeds

done in the name of some obscure

and morally corrupt belief system,

to the point that I no longer

want to hear, at all.

 

I don’t want to read the news,

I don’t want to sing the blues,

I don’t want to have to choose,

I don’t want to lose,

I’ve already paid my dues.

 

Yet the terrors of the world

pummel my senses,

and I’m held hostage by my

disgusted astonishment,

at phony outrage and

moral jingoism.

 

Oh look, flowers blooming

in the Spring sunshine,

how nice,

I hope

they

make

it.

                                   ________________________________________________

https://www.theasphaltjungle.com/a-flower-grows-through-it-it-being-asphalt.html 

Lowers in the West

 

                Dust clouds in sickly spires blew across the burnt topsoil. The children sat in a rough circle, tossing small sandy pebbles toward the center. Summer insects whizzed weakly through the dry, hot air.

It was silent. The children continued their game, unenthusiastically. Their heads rested on their bent knees or in the crook of their arms. If it would only rain. 

                “I blame the queers,” said Dervin, “that’s why it ain’t ranin’.” 

                “That’s stupid,” said Nigella, “Ain’t no queers in this County.” 

                “Ya’ll both stupid,” said Jimmy, “that ain’t got nothin’ to do with nothin’. It’s a drought ya dummies. Ain’t got nothing to do with none of all that.” 

                A cricket buzzed in the distance as it hopped across the barren dirt. Dervin tossed a rock at it but missed. 

                “That’s what I heard anyway. That the queers and the trans folks or them New Yorks, they been makin’ God angry, yet we’s the ones to suffer,” said Dervin. 

                “Where’d you hear that,” asked Jimmy. 

                “My Daddy. The preacher. That fella on the cable News,” said Dervin as he held up three fingers and counted them off as he spoke. 

                “Well my Daddy and my Momma say them folks is the ones who’re sinnin’ and making God angry,” said Jimmy. 

                “You callin’ my Daddy a sinner,” said Dervin as he started to curl his hands into little fists. 

                “I ain’t calling him a sinner, no,” said Jimmy, “I am just saying that my Momma AND Daddy have said that there’s these folks, that pretend to be Christian, but in the real world, they ain’t so Christian and they’re makin’ God mad. Not these other folks just doing whatever it is that theys do.” 

                “You just an 11-year-old, what do you know about it,” said Nigella, “you don’t know nothin.”

                 “I’m just sayin’ what I heard and that’s what my Momma and Daddy are sayin’,” said Jimmy. His arms were open wide and he shrugged with the innocence of being 11-years-old. 

                Dervin looked at the dry ground and loosened his fists. It was too hot to smack Jimmy anyway.

                 Nigella nudged Luther, who’d been quiet through this whole exchange, on his foot. Luther looked up from the mists of his mind into Nigella’s face.

                 “Whatchu want,” said Luther.

                 “I wanna know whatchu think, why we’s in this drought,” said Nigella.

                 Luther sat forward on his haunches and rested his cheeks on his knees. He played with the few small pebbles still in in front of him. He raised his head up and looked at Dervin, Jimmy, and Nigella.

                 “I think blamin’ the weather on God, or queers, or New Yorks, is dumb. It don’t matter whose Momma or Daddy or some TV News says. It’s all nothin’ anyway. This land. It’s dead and ain’t no amount of floods or rain, or miraculous interventions is gonna bring it back. There’s ain’t no jobs, there ain’t no stores, the school’s a joke and we ain’t been there in months anyway and ain’t no body cared,” said Luther, “so it don’t matter why or how there’s a drought. But I’m pretty sure bein' gay or whatever, that ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.”

                 Nigella and Dervin nodded as if Luther had spoken to them from a high mountaintop, like an ancient sage blessed with knowledge.

                 “That’s what I was sayin’,” said Jimmy, “but y’all don’t ever listen to me, only to Luther, cause he’s 12.”

                 “He’s more worldly,” said Nigella. She smiled and she nudged Luther with her shoulder to his shoulder.  

                  Jimmy tossed the remaining pebbles in the pile in front of him into the middle of the circle. He huffed and groaned.

                 “Heheh… worldly,” laughed Dervin.

                 The hot dusty wind blew around their young circle. The sun dipped lower in the West.