The Aliens

The aliens have come here to kill us, or we have come to their world to kill them. Or, not to kill them so much as for their resources, which we need and they don’t. We would teach the aliens if they would just listen, but they are ungrateful. The aliens don’t understand us. They don’t even try.

The aliens speak strange languages and play strange music. The aliens are ugly, even when they look like us, tho they can sometimes speak our language better than we do. The aliens sometimes hold wisdom. The aliens on our side can sometimes kick ass and make useful sidekicks, though they could never be in command. The aliens sometimes end up here by mistake and just want to go home. The good kind anyway. The bad kind have come to stay. The aliens will unite us all in fear, and even though someone always tries to be friendly to them—that person always dies.

Our government and/or corporations conspire to put us in contact with the aliens but can’t save us from them. We have to save ourselves—with violence, which we didn’t ask but are prepared for. Because the aliens have come to live among us. The aliens have come to impose their laws. The aliens have come to impregnate our women. The aliens have even come to impregnate us. And we sleep, and our chests burst.

Your Love

I lift your love out of its cage, writhing in my hands, hissing and rattling, open mouth fangs, scales smooth and slippery, an earth scent. I lower your love scared and angry to the ground, to walk upon, to test my faith, to demonstrate my dominion, and your love accepts my weight, and I speak in tongues.

Raising your love again, draping it around my neck, it rises, glaring, as if to strike, as if to bite, but instead lowers itself, nuzzling down into my shirt.


He hates Saturday Night. He doesn’t have a date and everyone else does except some of the other losers sitting in this cafe like him. They are all incapable of meeting and/or talking to each other. Bob Dylan is playing on the cafe stereo and he would love to be able to talk to someone about how Dylan seems to be doing some of his best work now even though the radio stations will only play his stuff from the 60’s and 70’s. He doesn’t think he can stay up for the midnight movie at the State Theatre even though he thinks it’s Evil Dead II and he’s been obsessed with zombies all summer, and the idea of zombie as metaphor for things such as AIDS or Iraq or otherness or even as a critique of consumer culture. What if zombies attacked right now? They would all have to band together, barricade the windows and doors without getting pulled out and having our brains eaten, or worse, becoming infected and turning into zombies ourselves, though he’s not sure they could barricade the café windows successfully—they are huge. But at least they would be interacting. At least the cute barista with the nice ass would talk to him. Or the studious Asian woman in the corner. Or even the guy downloading Internet porn onto his laptop. He himself downloads internet porn too sometimes; maybe they could be friends!

He’s refilled his green tea three times already, the teabag looks pretty ragged and he’s pretty sure he’s basically just sipping hot water now. Which is good because it’s cold in the café. He’s cold and it’s not even winter yet. He’s scared to go home. The neighbors were already playing beer pong at two in the afternoon and blasting music so loud it was vibrating in his chest. He’s scared they’ll still be at it and he’ll have to call the cops but the cops won’t come or won’t do anything so he’ll lie there not being able to sleep while stupid drunk zombies have fun on a Saturday Night and he does not. He doesn’t want to be a stupid drunk zombie but sometimes that seems the easiest way. It just seems like if he were a stupid drunk zombie maybe he wouldn’t be so lonely and he might even get laid.