I was sitting in The Skala having a beer
When a guy in a Superman’s costume walked by.
What I think you are saying,
inhaling smoke on the back porch
after everyone is in bed:
We’re all aliens
born into this world out of love,
out of rape, by mistake
we enter this alien state
and make it a temporary home
where we struggle, live, love
and then, like you
become aliens somewhere else.
What I think you are saying:
To be an alien is to be in our natural state.
I, myself, lately, have been feeling strange,
walking past my parked car
lying among silk desires,
seeing the city as a murder of crows
as rooming-house angels
at night, talking to dreams and fetishes who
stroll along familiar avenues holding hands.
I see your aliens everywhere.