Allen Bramhall
Aliens, Straining At Sense
1) Short Talk
aliens came politely to the conclusion that they have a reference point here on earth. strange indeed, but they have landed. here are the facts, they try to tell us—too bad that they sound like dolphins. we are adverse to listening to such outlanders. their flying saucers are strange, pure instigation, as are their ways. we substitute interest in natural fixing, for the waft of the approaching season. tears shine in the eyes of the aliens as they see us wallow. we are skilled on this planet, so we believe, but what are our definitions for elsewhere? the aliens are stoned by the time they get here, closed in the system they try to make. we are relaxed, except when people doubt our story. the plain work of going on offers much challenge: night skies, filled with dancing close encounters, and the rigourous debt of knowing something. resistance is a fable. the aliens are proper nouns, at least for now. we are verbal only temporarily. things must get on, move along. sad to say, too much depends on red wheelbarrows, in this day and age.
2) Alien Report
green aliens live in clusters. they have small devices. our team looks for them, but the green aliens are like trees: you never see them. the green aliens take turns hiding nouns, and we love our nouns. we enter the woods to await the green aliens, hoping to catch them with our nouns. rarely do we succeed.
the red aliens are more like squabbles. we build an idea around how they are so busy. see, they land, they probe us, they rush off. it's a trial but afterwards but we feel like part of something. the red aliens are almost news sometimes. we like to tell folks (tourists, really) about the funny sounds that the red aliens make. those aliens mean business.
the yellow aliens troop out of shadows, they must be reliable. they want to infer a country with its own language but this is not easy. they remind us of barn doors, we all think so. barn doors open with a gentle rush, as if breathing were a political position. the yellow aliens want to restore order, tho they haven’t any themselves. their spaceships are practical reminders of limitation. they must be very funny when they relax.
orange aliens contribute to the program, but aren’t the nicest. they seize livestock and talk strange ideas to them. when we are alone with orange aliens, we feel intense languour, as if sweat were a prayer or plainsong. the orange aliens like to levitate fresh loves of bread, to show a marvel that even we can store forever. these aliens try hard but are ungainly. everyone just wants their bread back.
vermilion aliens are tropes now, so we forget them.
other aliens line up, but work remains a matter of divided time.
3) Subsumed Gesture
registration of effect, compulsion to detail, catalogue of tropes and the few useable nouns: aliens remain concerned. there is sumptuous repast in the dark field, where the saucer lands. flying cigar, we laugh. this is serious business, however. that white beam pulls us heavenward, and begins the distilling process. we are imaginations, pure and simple. our laugh is access, which is a curiosity for them. they feel abandoned; we feel used. something clear occurs to us, or is that pain? is there loss in our subject, or just recognition? a lonely place in New Hampshire, or Kansas. it is in the books that les cigares volants may NOT fly above the vineyards of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, by express order of the powers that be. presently there will be sameness, excuses for the kindness that the aliens showed, tho we are relicts. justice must be served, apparently. a bitter longing abides, in our course, or we have dressed things up in such a way? who’s crazy, to see this miserly beginning? the chemistry question, physical laws, and still stuck in vocabulary. suddenness seems best, great interstellar speed. someday questions themselves will be dawn, just exactly in such colours and bearing. our being (here) will radiate an enclosing warmth, descriptive of time and some lost day. meanwhile, shadows seem darker, more implicit. rain may be an effect, ours…
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Aliens, Straining At Sense
1) Short Talk
aliens came politely to the conclusion that they have a reference point here on earth. strange indeed, but they have landed. here are the facts, they try to tell us—too bad that they sound like dolphins. we are adverse to listening to such outlanders. their flying saucers are strange, pure instigation, as are their ways. we substitute interest in natural fixing, for the waft of the approaching season. tears shine in the eyes of the aliens as they see us wallow. we are skilled on this planet, so we believe, but what are our definitions for elsewhere? the aliens are stoned by the time they get here, closed in the system they try to make. we are relaxed, except when people doubt our story. the plain work of going on offers much challenge: night skies, filled with dancing close encounters, and the rigourous debt of knowing something. resistance is a fable. the aliens are proper nouns, at least for now. we are verbal only temporarily. things must get on, move along. sad to say, too much depends on red wheelbarrows, in this day and age.
2) Alien Report
green aliens live in clusters. they have small devices. our team looks for them, but the green aliens are like trees: you never see them. the green aliens take turns hiding nouns, and we love our nouns. we enter the woods to await the green aliens, hoping to catch them with our nouns. rarely do we succeed.
the red aliens are more like squabbles. we build an idea around how they are so busy. see, they land, they probe us, they rush off. it's a trial but afterwards but we feel like part of something. the red aliens are almost news sometimes. we like to tell folks (tourists, really) about the funny sounds that the red aliens make. those aliens mean business.
the yellow aliens troop out of shadows, they must be reliable. they want to infer a country with its own language but this is not easy. they remind us of barn doors, we all think so. barn doors open with a gentle rush, as if breathing were a political position. the yellow aliens want to restore order, tho they haven’t any themselves. their spaceships are practical reminders of limitation. they must be very funny when they relax.
orange aliens contribute to the program, but aren’t the nicest. they seize livestock and talk strange ideas to them. when we are alone with orange aliens, we feel intense languour, as if sweat were a prayer or plainsong. the orange aliens like to levitate fresh loves of bread, to show a marvel that even we can store forever. these aliens try hard but are ungainly. everyone just wants their bread back.
vermilion aliens are tropes now, so we forget them.
other aliens line up, but work remains a matter of divided time.
3) Subsumed Gesture
registration of effect, compulsion to detail, catalogue of tropes and the few useable nouns: aliens remain concerned. there is sumptuous repast in the dark field, where the saucer lands. flying cigar, we laugh. this is serious business, however. that white beam pulls us heavenward, and begins the distilling process. we are imaginations, pure and simple. our laugh is access, which is a curiosity for them. they feel abandoned; we feel used. something clear occurs to us, or is that pain? is there loss in our subject, or just recognition? a lonely place in New Hampshire, or Kansas. it is in the books that les cigares volants may NOT fly above the vineyards of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, by express order of the powers that be. presently there will be sameness, excuses for the kindness that the aliens showed, tho we are relicts. justice must be served, apparently. a bitter longing abides, in our course, or we have dressed things up in such a way? who’s crazy, to see this miserly beginning? the chemistry question, physical laws, and still stuck in vocabulary. suddenness seems best, great interstellar speed. someday questions themselves will be dawn, just exactly in such colours and bearing. our being (here) will radiate an enclosing warmth, descriptive of time and some lost day. meanwhile, shadows seem darker, more implicit. rain may be an effect, ours…
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