Dear Alien,

"My bridges made a lovely blaze
I watched the flames grow higher.
And people came around for days
Just to see the fire.
And, I was oh, so satisfied
Until, alas, I learned
I was standing on the wrong side
Of the bridges I had burned."

Dear Alien,

His father was a redneck truck drive from Yorktown, Indiana who spent his later years sucking back Stroh's beer at the Dickey Mouse Tavern on Highway 32. He'd smoked Camel straights. And his steaks were eaten raw. But hamburgers were done well or not at all. Sent back. Back to a kitchen with Mama that sometimes had milk.

The house he remembered best... or most anyway... was dandelion-gone-to-seed yellow and damn big. Too big for his thinking now but not big enough for the child he'd meant to be. His side of town was what could have been called 'poor'. But only if followed by 'white trash'.

He went back and saw where the house used to be once. Found it gone. Replaced by years of thoughts of fleas on dogs and backyard pussy-willows gone soft and rich. The property bought out years ago by his old neighbors the Zebells for the expressed purpose of tearing down the melancholy structure to make way for their cotton-candy, candy-apple wagons used only in the warmer months for state fairs and pocket-lining. He had only rented.

Rented the times when the shine on his skin went unnoticed by him and the sun was a friend, not a threat. When spiders and sirens were somehow alike and the sharp, summer lightning spelled god.

There was no door through which to request intrusion now. No stairs to climb or remember to sweep. No backyard porch to stack dirty clothes on or jump off of to bravely show others your wings. Justly gone. Rubbed out of his eyes like a busy day.

His father's presence is everywhere still. Even here. Where nothing exists but gravel. It is here he returns like a bottle. It is here we discover him home.

Dear Alien,

Your television confuses me.

I tapped into the TV feed today because I wanted to hear more about the sad, regretful passing over of my good friend Gilligan. We knew each other from Studio 54 and ever since that unfortunate misunderstanding we had over who should wear the mylar, it's never been the same. But we've always had a deep, abiding respect for each other. (Though silver has always been a better color for me than for him.)

Anyway, I love watching the entertainment shows. There's always a strange familiarity hidden within the watching. The set - soooo blue and busy and flashy, their hosts - soooo white and busy and flashy, their text - soooo purple and busy and flashy. I always find a strange, cold comfort in the middle of the constant verbal assault and the total lack of news.

So, I'd just tapped into the feed when suddenly a bright flash appeared through the portal and distracted me from the screen. I kept looking outside for any sign of life but found nothing (as usual). I could still hear the entertainment program blasting in the background.

"It's sad when you think about it!" I heard the host shouting. "These people are soooo poor! And soooo black!"

I turned and looked at the screen and realized that this wasn't "Extra" at all. Apparently, I'd tapped into CNN's feed by mistake. I was watching Wolf Blitzer in "The Situation Room". And, evidently, the situation was how poor and black the new New Orleans evacuees were/are.

So...

I tried to listen but I couldn't.

Even though "The Situation Room" had the same blue set as "Entertainment Tonight" and touted the same purple prose of "Inside Edition", this host was soooo white that I knew it would blind me if I continued watching.

So I went back to humming Gilligan's favorite song : "My Buddy".

And went looking for that sign of life again.

I'll let you know when I find something.

Dear Alien,

Were I king of this world I'd see to it that everyone was required every morning to hold a mirror up to themselves and look deeply into their own and pronounce the thing that most disturbed them at that moment :

"People drive too slow."
"Average is the new stupid."
"I wake up hungry."
"My tits are too small."
"I never have money."
"I can't love Jesus enough."
"My mother thought I was better than this."
"Maroon 5 sucks."
"Happy people piss me off."
"My boy is a queer."
"Women are frightened of me."
"I'm allergic to dander."
"Paris Hilton."
"My father touches me."
"Work is my only refuge and I hate my job."
"Nobody uses wallpaper well anymore."
"All of HBO's good shows are starting to look alike."
"That rat bit me."
"I wish, I wish, I wish I were a fish..."

Then I'd make sure that everybody put the mirror down and went on with their lives. Then, long about 6pm, when it was time to go home, they'd stop what they were doing and change to a different house. In the morning, where a different mirror sat waiting to catch their purging spooge, they'd repeat the previous day's cathartica.
On and on it would go until the mirrors were full up and started to overflow. Then everybody would have to stop complaining because everybody would have to hear it all over again so everybody would decide to help everybody out with what it was that was bugging them until everybody just didn't have anything to bitch about anymore. And when that point was reached, I'd demand that everybody take the shared hit of 7 years of bad luck and break each mirror completely. Shattering it till it cut soul. Then they could go on and do whatever the hell it was they wanted to do with themselves before they started doing what somebody else probably had wanted them to do in the first place.
Such an ear-shattering cracking of unintended purpose is what I wait for somedays.
Other days I just butter my bread.

Dear Alien,

I was flying over the new New Orleans yesterday and thought at first that I'd taken a wrong turn and ended up over Venice, Italy. The streets were canals and there were people running around looking for something they weren't sure how they'd lost so suddenly. But they had.
I was just about to go down and see if I could help when this huge plane with a big, white man peeking out its window clipped me slightly and sent me spinning off in the direction of Memphis. So I swung by Graceland and bought a cookie.
Later I saw the white man from the plane on your tv sets. He was walking around in crisp clothes, freshly showered and smiling smugly. He hugged a crying girl and her mother and burbled platitudes and well-wishes. Then he left again.
Turns out he runs the place.
Right into the ground it would seem.

Dear Alien,

A friend once told me about a dream he had.
He was walking by some water when it suddenly came up over his head.
He tried to breathe but he couldn't.
At first he was frightened.
Then something told him to give in.
To relax.
To fight...not less...but in another way.
So he did.
Suddenly he grew gills.
And the sun looked different now.