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
grow and—

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.