In the end the earth
dies, of course, and either
the detestable aliens
offer us a new ugly
religion or we are
simply ash, our
buildings empty,
on fire. Usually
the humans who are
left learn to sigh
and may even
forget the old
god who got them
into so much
trouble in the first place.
But remember
in some books there are
children picking
weeds and dandelions
from front lawns
all across America.
No one mentions
the wicked step-father
who takes literally
his little patch
while the ghost
of an alien satellite
plays tricks with
his brain. He will
eventually drive
to the desert
leaving his car
and his jacket
on the road
and no one will
know where he went.
Al fin del siglo,
the largest and widest
of these volumes
echoes off the walls
like a bad opera,
too many notes and the people
really don’t know what
they’re doing, except
that they have special
guns, horses, and parades
like we do here, only there
the masters make clear
their plans, their
domination of the solar
system, the large rocks
that fly by our little
planet, not knowing
we’re here at all.
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