Tag Archives: aliens

Kicked Up In April

The cocktail waitress smoked a menthol cigarette,

saying it cleared out the snot and crap from her head,

left her sinuses dry as a bone, as pollen kicked up in April.

Out in the back of the restaurant, five minutes for a smoke,

before she went back to smiling for ogling men, fake flirtation,

and being a pretty dream for hopefully big tips.

I was smoking too, as night fell, and the hot afternoon faded.

I was in love with her, and was glad to be alone with her,

away from the sweltering, stifling, and noisy kitchen.

We looked up at the sky, a barren and cold and unbroken black,

with two, maybe three weak and blown out stars, and no moon.

So little in the banal lights of the city to dream upon.

Then a bright, bright red light streaked across that flat black,

zigged up and zagged down and made impossible moves,

leaving an open cut on the sky that bled for a few seconds, then faded.

Then it streaked off, gone forever.

The cocktail waitress stubbed her cigarette on the wall, sighed out her smoke,

Aliens, she said, their watching us, manipulating us, cross breeding us,

and we sold ourselves out for not even thirty pieces of silver, just some toys,

She goes inside, to smile and perform, and I’m alone in the cooling night.

This not our world, not even the world of the powerful, but the demonic hands they kiss.

The weight of that black sky that held only fallen angels was unbearable.

I too, went inside.

Emptiness In The Stars

The woman wore dirty, low top sneakers.
And old style. Falling apart. Frayed Laces.
She propped her feet up on the dashboard.
She looked out the window. I didn’t try to talk.
A Bible thumping station played on the radio.
They said The Rapture was coming; Their Revenge.
The Rockies started to raise over the arid plains.
The woman said her father landed at Mt. Shasta.
The woman said she felt an emptiness in the stars.
Bailey Colorado, I drop her off. Says her father’s here.
She says the emptiness, the ache will end now forever.
We’re all looking for The Rapture, Going Home, Our Revenge.

A Memory On A Pink Morning

The highway above the city, too near the sky,

and angel or a demon came near, touched my face,

emissary of an unknowable God.

A cool summer, cannon fire on the border,

drones watching and reading faces, tea leaves,

this emissary came close, alkaline taste on my eyes.

Stars distant but still my home, light and fire cutting

the words of a God who will not speak for himself

on my skin, scars are the truest holy writ.

And I lie afterwards, looking up at the starry sky

that is giving way to pink morning, like revelation

gives way to punching a clock and perfunctory kisses.

The thing, good or evil or just a girl, came to me

and visions more felt than known lingers, like the

warmth of it touching my face, a memory on a pink morning.

Ride or Die

Mt Shasta, in early spring. Melting snow. Tender buds.
She holds tight to me, our helmets touching, at speed.
The UFO were all nested here, baby birds, shivering.
Left by a mothership, to do her will, win her battles.
She said she saw gossamer wings in my back, shiny.
She kissed me, said I could fight for her, and win.
The nest was in the mountain, where pale men, ghosts,
plotted the war, fed the baby birds, sharpened their talons.
That night, her body was warm and bare against my back.
She radiated, and swallowed that heat greedily, needy.
Were we soldiers, or angels going home, or releaser of
the light that all things. She said even the UFO shone bright.
I stopped the motorbike, looked at the mountain, helmets touching.
I fight for her. I fight for her, which is fighting for myself, for a home.
We might go home, or we might just leave these corporeal bodies.
We might lift the Demiurge’s curse, and make everyone free and clean.
I revved the motorbike and sped to gate between the road and heaven.
She said I had wings. That I could fight for her. She said I could win.

She Calls My Name II

The road to the sky, mountains empty and dark, the wind bleeding.

               No moon and the stars are still, the veil of the sky to the earth torn.

               Music full of sorrow and resignation at the coming doom of innocence.

               Soothes me as I drove, not wanting to come, but having no choices left.

 

               On the sidewalk of the pull off, silence is it’s own terror, it’s own howl.

               The dot of blue light, unmoving, far off but there’s no distance with her.

               Inside my mind and wrapped in the skin of a bitter lover lost to youth.

               Angel’s wings draw tears that the feeds to the demons she made from me.

 

               On the grass the soul is drawn into the sky, into the wastes of paradise.

               She called my name, a golden sunbeam from softly noon, not tender at all.

               Angel’s wings tear the skin and close the unseen eye, light is a darker path.

               A hand to hold because two around your throat, and she chokes off true love.

 

               Another face, truer, as I know I was made broken numbers and holy damnation.

               I hold another’s face in my lost dreams, and bleeding memories white from cold.

               But She called my name, and the starlight kills all the chance at a darling triumph.

               She called my name, and hell pulled a true love, to give me to the cruelty of angels.

 

 

The Crimson Angel

Late night drive, from the lush green mountains of my home,
to the empty and harsh deserts, where the aliens come down.
Angels ride UFOs, and Demons and Deros jamm light vibrations.
When I get to Scottsdale, when I get to Bobbi Jo, it will be clear.
 Little pull off, thermos of coffee, didn’t know it was so cold at night.
The Eye of Mercy is brighter than the moon, than all our time.
It warms me, as the wind is cold, and their is devilish dreams about.
Eye in my eye, to see the light in the dark, in the hold out saints.
 The sun is rising, the bloody birth of the clear, blameless sky.
In the half burning light, the desert is a shadow and a star.
In the honeyed light, it’s all so mysterious, wonderous.
The light of day is so harsh to memories and hope, our angels.
 The coffee gives jitters, and there’s no smokes to steady me.
But I know she’s waiting, The Crimson Angel, the Light of Justice.
Come all this way, the demons getting in the music, even my dreams.
I will join her. I will be holy and pure, a paladin forever restored.