The Alien
by Greg Delanty
I'm back again scrutinizing the Milky Way
of your ultrasound, scanning the dark
matter, the nothingness, that now the heads say
is chockablock with quarks & squarks,
gravitons & gravitini, photons & photinos. Our sprout,
who art there inside the spacecraft
of your Ma, the time capsule of this printout,
hurling & whirling towards us, it's all daft
on this earth. Our alien who art in the heavens,
our Martian, our little green man, we're anxious
to make contact, to ask divers questions
about the heavendom you hail from, to discuss
the whole shebang of the beginning&end,
the pre–big bang untime before you forget the why
and lie of thy first place. And, our friend,
to say Welcome, that we mean no harm, we'd die
for you even, that we pray you’re not here
to subdue us, that we’d put away
our ray guns, missiles, attitude and share
our world with you, little big head, if only you stay.
************************************************
See what I mean by the headline? "Ultrasound?" The "spacecraft of your Ma?" Is the alien simply a metaphorical description of a baby? Or is a baby a metaphor for an alien? Yeah, I just blew your mind, didn't I?
Then again, before you spend too much time thinking about that, remember that all symbolism is bunk.
And the final thought on this poem: How long do you think it'll be until someone invents a drink called the "gravitini?" Or by saying that, did I in fact just invent that drink myself?
Fishes:
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