Letter 17

Letter 17 -
The Father House

Dear Alien.

My father was a Redneck truckdriver from Yorktown, Indiana
Who spent his later days sucking back
Stroh’s beer
In the Dickey Mouse TavernOn Highway 32.

He smoked Camel Straights.His steaks were eaten raw.
But hamburgers were done well
Or not at all.

Sent back.

Back to the kitchen with Mama
That sometimes had milk.

The house I remember best,
(Or most, anyway)
Was dandelion-gone-to-seed yellow and
Damn Big.
Too big for my thinking now.
Not big enough for the child I meant to be.

I went back and found where the house used to be once.
Found it gone.
Replaced.
Replaced by years of thoughts of
Fleas on dogs and
Backyard pussy-willows gone soft and rich.
Justly gone.
We had only rented.

Rented the times when the
Shine on your skin went
Unnoticed by you and
The sun was a friend,
Not a threat.
When spiders and sirens were
Somehow alike
And the soft, summer lightning
Spelled God.

There is no door through which to
Request intrusion now.
No stairs to climb nor
Remember to sweep.
No backyard porch to
Stack dirty clothes on or
Jump off of when bravely
Showing others your wings.

Justly gone.
Rubbed out of my eyes like a busy day.

My father’s presence is everywhere still.
Even here.
Where nothing exists but gravel.
It is here he returns like a bottle..
It is here still I follow him home.

Surv Alien 3

In the vain attempt at trying to fit in with the people of this particular planet, The Alien is answering all surveys as they come in...

1. Are you in a relationship?
No. I'm in my office. (?)

2. Do you hate more than 3 people?
Depends on the people and how much they hate.

3. How many houses have you lived in?
Including yours?

4. Favorite Candy Bar?
The one made out of whipped sugar and lemons that has Happy Hour 24 hours a day.

5. What are your favorite shoes?
The ones I can never fill.

6. Have you ever tripped someone?
Out.

7. What was your least favorite subject this year?
Well, it certainly wasn't Suri Cruise.

8. What was your favorite subject this year?
Well, it certainly wasn't Suri Cruise.

9. Do you own a Britney Spears?
No. A Buick.

10. Have you ever thrown up in public?
Too embarrassed. I throw like a girl.

11. Are you thinking about somebody right now?
Does Suri Cruise count?

12. What is your favorite music genre?
The Spheres.

13. What is your sign?
Yield.

14. What time were you born?
No such thing as Time.

15. Do you like beer?
All over my body.

16. Have you ever made a prank call?
I don't think so. What do you make it with?

17. What is the most embarassing CD you own?
Bob Dylan sings Donna Summer.

18. Are you sarcastic?
C 17

19. Favorite color?
I don't want to make the other colors sad.

20. How many watches do you own?
I only rent Time.

22. Spring or fall?
Depends on whether I'm going up or down.

23. What is your favorite color to wear?
Clear.

24. Pepsi or Sprite?
I'm fine, thank you.

25. What color is your cell phone?
You could just ask for my number if you want it.

26. Where is your second home?
Where my heart is.

27. Have you ever slapped someone?
Silly.

28. Have you ever had a cavity?
I'm searching.

29. How many lamps are in your bedroom?
I'll go ask.

30. How many video games do you own?
Only the one I live in.

31. What was your first pet?
On the head.

32. Have you ever had braces?
Would you think less of me?

33. Do looks matter?
Not to a baby.

34. Do you use Chapstick?
Sometimes as lubricant.

35. Name 3 teachers from your last school.
Me, myself and I.

36. American Eagle or Abercrombie?
The national bird and a line of clothing?

37. Are you too forgiving?
I'm against keeping. Is that the same thing?

38. How many children do you want?
How many are you selling?

39. Do you own something from Hot Topic?
I'm beginning to think you want to rob me. Please don't rob me.

40. What is your favorite breakfast?
Tomorrow's.

41. Do you own a gun?
If I say "yes", do you promise not to rob me? Yes.

42. Have you ever thought you were in love?
Thoughts are things. So. I must have been. I think.

43. When was the last time you cried?
When I looked at the hole in the sky.

44. What did you do 2 days ago?
Spent it thinking it was today.

45. When was the last time you went to the Olive Garden?
When I kissed Jesus. (That might have been a mistake.)

46. Have you ever called your teacher mom?
My mom was a teacher. Now what do you have to say, smartypants?

47. Have you ever been in a castle?
Yes. It was white. And I was sated.

48. What are your nicknames?
The Alien. Alien. The.

49. Do you know anyone named Bertha?
Is she looking for me again?

50. Have you ever been to Kentucky?
I went to look at the blue grass. They lied, I guess.

51. Do you own something from Banana Republic?
A monkey.

52. Are you thinking about somebody right now?
Ok. Ok. Fine. Suri Cruise.

53. Have you ever called someone Boo?
Boo who?

54. Do you smoke?
Sometimes when I'm peeling out.

55. Do you own a diamond ring?
It's hidden. Get away from me. Why do you want to know what stuff I have?
Get away from me. It's hidden.

56. Are u happy w/ ur life right now?
What are my other options?

58. Does anyone like you?
There's no one like me.

59. Who's your 5 bestfriends..if u have them..?
That questions has to many grammaterological errs in it to answer them.

60. What were you doing May of 1994?
Let me look. Oh, right. I was dead already.

61. Do you own a Backstreet Boys CD?
No. So, if you're selling one... I suppose I could take it off your hands? (I'm just trying to
help you out.)

62. McDonald's or Wendy's?
I don't know. But whoever's it is, you should give it back to them.

63. Do you like yourself?
I should marry me.

64. Are you closer to your mother or father?
I don't know. They're ghosts now. So you should ask them who's closer to me.

65. Favorite feature of the opposite sex?
Anything that's different from me. Or similar. Or the same.

66. Are you afraid of the dark?
Not if I have the light.

67. Have you ever eaten paste?Too many carbs.

68. Do you have a webcam?
Not anymore. The last SurvAlien poster asked me that question then came and robbed me. That's when I got the gun.

69. Have you ever striped?
I prefer plaids.

70. Is your myspace song meant to be for anyone?
We should all just be for ourselves. A song can't do that. Silly question.

Nearly Killed

My blog. My little friend. Google thought I was a "spammer" whatever that means to you humans, but I assured them I was not.

A lost world

Opportunities arise, sometimes they seem like good ideas, we grab them and run, we make beautiful things for a time. Then, one little piece shows itself to be flawed and the whole glorious construct collapses and fades and quietens and disappears. Ashes to Ashes. Good news! A pile of ashes is the requirement for starting anew.

There was a Woman Named Oprah

Wednesday at three.
Oprah goes to Auschwitz.
Miss Pope by a day.

Haik_ow.

Stayin Alive

It's not easy maintaining a relationship with a blog. Horrible creatures who should stay on their own planet.

Dear World

Another month has gone by.

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.

Dear Alien,

I was alone.
And there were others.
Red lights, like slow-moving arteries made traffic difficult.
From that direction anyway.
There was no sun anymore.
Just its remains: a few clouds; puff-violets, sinking fast. Over with work now and looking forward to dinner.

It was a Time of wondering and haunts from Dead Heroes.
The Mail Carriers were killing themSelves and still the mail found you home.
Unfortunate absences proliferated.
As if playing catch-up for money.
And college girls sorted laundry on Saturday nights.
Alone.
Sometimes the Beat went on, endlessly unheard by Majority Rulers.
This was not a Time of Balance.
And those born under the sign of Libra moved elsewhere.

Nervous associations popped up nervously and this woman, like many others really, carrying two shopping bags from the grocery store and not much support in her heels, followed her thoughts downtown.
"I have Pepsi." She thought. "That always makes me feel better."

But these were the Times when a dust-bunny gathers on thoughts,
If you're thinking at all, which you are.
The Past was the Future and few understood what one must understand,
Or ignore, if you're wise.
So.
Pepsi or no.
No one spoke anymore.
Not really.
Though speaking would just fit the bill.

The priorities placed out of place, which confused, and brought great comprehension of little.
And no one to blame.
(That's the Killer, Miss Miller.)
That's the phone ringing suddenly.
Pulling you out.

These were the 90's advanced quite a while.
Overly prepared for its date.
Jumpy and scented.
Pulled together one last time for the approval of someone Else.
Or maybe just lonely.

One day hot. Next day not. Cold. Real Quick. Like a cleansing after a fire. Kinda dry. Now reeeal wet.
And cigarettes glance from the table in the corner of your eye.
Great camels, like cocks riding billboards in neon.
Electrical buzzing to light up your life.
Thanks for the buzz, and all that.
Half-hearted offerings permeated and beer will always be cheaper by the case.

"Runnin' black man.
Musta stole somethin'."

Walk on the green in the promise of summer.
Stop at the red in the rain.

Dear Alien,

I was once accused of having a "cozy universe".
We were having your typical conversation about the Light and the Dark and which would Win and how this Very Conversation wasn't happening anyway and how Ridiculous the Point was because of course there can never be a Victor in Light or Dark because it's always a question of Extremes and how it will Never Change but go on and on and on until we all drop dead of exhaustion and he said:

"You have a very cozy Universe."

I rather liked the appeal of that.
I don't know if "cozy" is the right word. But "supportive" works for me. As does the Universe. As do I. As do You.

Now.

Dear Alien,

Whenever I think about the war in Iraq I feel like something has been erased in my mind.

Dear Alien,

Dear Alien,

Today I heard Mary Hart interview Steven Cojo about his interview with Larry
King who told us about his interview with Dr. Phil who had just taped an interview
with Pat O’Brien.

So I saw a Talking Head talking to a Talking Head about talking with a Talking Head about speaking to a Talking Head-shrinker who’d talked to a Talking Head.

But nobody really said anything.

Chips?

Dear Alien,

So you know.
The Alien was born. He doesn’t know where. He’s still trying to figure out why.
He knows there are others like him. He just knows it. But he can’t find them.
And he’s been trying to for a very long time.

Throughout his travels he’s come upon several very strange and wonderful places.
One of his favorites was the evergreen planet where all things were in black and white and all the beings there wondered all the time what “green” meant. He couldn’t figure out how to tell them.

There was another place that was only two-dimensional. But the beings there were
surprisingly deep.

But his favorite place of all is a little planet way off the universal map that he happened upon when he was scouting for a place to take a quick pee. He saw a sparkling blue bauble and was immediately drawn to it.

“Maybe they’re there.” He thought to himself as he tucked his better part away.
“Maybe I’ll find me home.” He washed his hands and headed down to the solid parts.

Well, now that he’s been here awhile he realizes that it’s not where he really belongs.

And this makes him sad.

He loves the beings here more than any other place he’s ever been.
But he doesn’t fully get them.

So he writes to his people and tells them about these creatures.

Since he doesn’t know what his people are called, he simply writes : Dear Alien,...
Hoping against hope that someday, some year, some millenium, somehow, somewhere, somebody that’s just like him, will find one of his letters and write him back.

And maybe they’ll tell him where he needs to go.

But till then...

He’s staying right here.

Dear Alien,

I know a guy who needs to love and be loved and wants children and an OldpeoplegrowingoldtogetherNess.

He's looking for a
Heart-baring,
Hand-holding,
Silence-sharing,
Future-molding,
Neck-rubbing,
Bed-spooning,
Double-tubbing,
Ballad-crooning
Kiss my face when I'm not even in the room kind of person.

But he doesn't trust anybody who likes him.

But I like him.
And he trusts me.
So I don't get the disconnect.
"It's a head/heart thing." He tells me.
I don't understand what he means.

If the head controlled the heart, wouldn't our hearts stop beating when we get distracted?

Dear Alien,

In this our land of sad, untempered rage
We tip-toe like the Indian at night.
We sense the quiet danger of the age
So carry with us only what is Light.
We creep as creatures new to no restraint,
And hide before the Haunted-hunting Call.
(Which cuts the cloaked darkness like a Saint
Gone Made from fearful thinking of his fall.)
Fear's neither made of substance, nor of form,
Nor neither, too, contained in naught but air,
But someplace in-between. 'Tis eye and storm.
And so, like Man, convinced that It is there.

If tangled tangibilities could teach
Were they unbraided, sorted and laid-out,
What Truths (before unseen) would bless the eye?
What Knowledge gained? What Passion (drained of doubt)?
If God's pure Light and Nature's Denser Glow
were ready-made apparent, would we know?
This many-layered mask which hides our woe
Would drop away. Revealing Man below.