By Greg Delanty
I'm back again scrutinizing the Milky Way
of your ultrasound, scanning the dark
matter, the nothingness, that now the heads say
is chockablock with quarks & squarks,
gravitons & gravitini, photons & photinos. Our sprout,
who art there inside the spacecraft
of your Ma, the time capsule of this printout,
hurling & whirling towards us, it's all daft
on this earth. Our alien who art in the heavens,
our Martian, our little green man, we're anxious
to make contact, to ask divers questions
about the heavendom you hail from, to discuss
the whole shebang of the beginning&end,
the pre-big bang untime before you forget the why
and lie of thy first place. And, our friend,
to say Welcome, that we mean no harm, we'd die
for you even, that we pray you're not here
to subdue us, that we'd put away
our ray guns, missiles, attitude and share
our world with you, little big head, if only you stay.
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Quickie while watching the season finale of Resident Alien, in which hopefully Enver Gjokaj is going to save the world so he can come back and be sexy next season. It was a pretty typical nice Wednesday here, though much colder than Tuesday after overnight pouring rain: chatted with my high school friends in the morning, watched the end of Thor: Love and Thunder with Kristen in the afternoon and started The Falcon and the Winter Soldier.
I had to rearrange my books and Tarot decks thanks to a few awesome new additions, including The Sherwood Oracle by Mark Ryan and The Infinite Possibilities Oracle by Taylor Blackwell, who autographed it for me and who hopefully will also be back on Resident Alien next season. We watched The Masked Singer, which was smart enough not to unmask the Clock (Thelma Houston?). Birds fish for crabs just like people do at Carkeek Park:
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