BY 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-but 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 are trying to make. we are relaxed, except when people doubt our story. the plain work of going on offer 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 go into 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. our asses hurt 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 is 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. there's a bitter longing, 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…
4) Sorting Process
mystery begins easily. the little guy gestures and something trenchant becomes a fixed position. the sun is a dollop, words mere shadows. a dynamic appropriation leaves me dry, as I think of the next moment. there is no next moment, and the alien wouldn't want one. I guess I wobble in the midst. definition is temporary. the alien thinks of language as an energy, I can tell this. I think of it as obvious, but I realize the mistake in such thinking. this should be the first message, but of course it is late. the alien lifts a rock from the ground and suddenly it is the earth itself. I probably could have done the same trick. an alien is a strange creature but so is a squirrel. bumblebees gather pollen into autumn, till they cannot anymore, and that is theirs. the sky was upset at a time, vicious with colour and impending document. those who saw the document felt a thrill and fear. the aliens landed, of course. science fiction squandered more hope and books came unglued. pages flew. the aliens became a stuttering, and no reliable version emerged. statement unchained and beer grew heavy in the brain. ages melted, forming nuclei that eventually detached from the brain stem and adapted their acids to the idea of a new sun. this sun glowered for three seconds (counted so accurately, the invention of dance) then we took its cue. we lined up, each person, and listened for a bell. the bell rang as expected, brokering a time when. we never learned when, just that a time existed. something was in the future, but that same something also lodged in the past. fits of steam engines and nuclear exception combined. the world grew roseate, or how does dawn look to the unattended heart? saturation unleashed a level of expectation, winds from the west. the west itself looked small, but we continued. the aliens landed, drew us close and expended their document. this was our day too.
5) Future Days Such As These Will Be With Us In The Future
a president for earth was called for. unity amongst all to mellow earth's needs. this is a stressful time, wayward bargaining and a hope for a future. aliens circle our planet, looming with a display of power. we must unite Earth under a president, a voice, the people as one cry out. what is this one, that wraps their word together? surely their word enters the darkest reaches of space, to prove that diction is no mean enclosure. the president of earth becomes believable, like there is an idea, one, and abetment is natural. astonished enumerations try to insulate further tributes, but time is terrible and rushed. the aliens insist, the clock ticks. the people rise as one, decrying earth's presidential lack. threats urge earth, and time lets fly. this is an age of change, cry the people, their words full of science fiction. the people are hungry, they are hunger. they will no longer take it. it will be removed from the lexicon, along with reference to earlier passages. there must be unity, to speak to the alien instigation. we come in peace, the aliens announce from their bored spaceship enclaves. what is peace, really? the people ask, suspicious of tropes. a haze covers the planet. an earth president would solve the entreaty. an earth president would centralize the discussion. the people are prepared to call out. spacecraft litter the skies and the drummer for Led Zeppelin dies, seriously dies. didn't the drummer for the Who die too, in the sportive compliance of time? the people muse, with fear in their voices. the aliens have taken horse by rein, resisting an inclination to remove theory from the farm. our gestures are for naught, the people declaim in rhythm. future days are around here somewhere.
6) Uttermost Upbringing
today is just a sleepy time. the aliens have been trooping thru the woods at night, all nights, alerting each radiant idea to gather. this is a strange, disturbing trend to fill our town. noises abound, and a slipping vocabulary. the townsfolk all are supercharged, awakened to this need. practice captivates our onslaught, our sense of preparation. the aliens are blue, composed of sensual debate. we are vague in colour, poorly defined. when we meet the aliens, we feel sadness and longing. the aliens rarely make a sound. the woods are vibrant and almost welcoming. light seems to be a new age, and not as bright as expected. this radiation has put position in our words. is this too a trend? we discuss this with our neighbours, and no one has a clue. will we always speak in rattled expectation? when the sun falls behind the hills again, will loss be the only refrain we can remember? there is an intensity in this junction, a constricting confrontation with the obvious. the aliens look as sweet as a clear spring morning, blue as a gust from an unexpected source. the sky is a vault under which our poses look complete. the aliens strive in night skies, launching gracious spaceships to fill imaginative response. our terror is a freight train, just carrying on. the aliens have no word to say, but they don't seem bereft. we have words a-plenty, and stutter with each. this must be the turnpike of which we dreamed. we could grow in kindness, love. we could leave the panic behind. the woods have colour everyday, owing nothing to the aliens. we are stroked because we are small. somehow our concerns are blended. in the morning we rise, a trifle headachy but filled with an idea. that idea will be named, and in naming find a deed. the rest of this is just the average, and how each step procures. someday, it seems, the aliens may even laugh
7) Aliens On Business From Porlock
this is personal but I must speak. I was writing lyric, which is a shaft of light in intention, a ripple on water. I am not saying I wrote good lyric, only that music was there, words and forth. accommodation, explosive sky (broad daylight, mind you), and the flying saucer arrived. quite beautiful, as you might expect. I was transfixed. easy for me, I am of an ecstatic nature. mystic dream presence added to, that sort of thing. so the flying saucer positions itself above the ground nearby, and a portal opens. a fetching several aliens disembark. they are lit with interest. I want words within me, pure as hope or the next mile. the aliens, I am sure, sensed this conspicuous retention. I speak not of internal genius, just the motivating energy. the aliens gathered round me, almost physical. I felt a sensation of trying, with a music both rational and the lightest ton of the heavenly earth. I must've burst into tears tho who is to say that light broke for me and let me swim? lyrical empathy is a sweetness that can churn thru space and time. love is arresting. the aliens dispatched a pathway, closing symbols around the merest perplexities and treating me to song. my motions were small and possibly aggravating: I wrote with little sense of where words need and why. a costing effect sent me riverward, to instill the latent pioneer and desperate courage. I was small as clarity, round as ocean, blue as skittering space objects in the time it takes. what was I willing but the very love that animates? and beyond that, a sensation in a word or writing, going into glowing terms that were places that are sound and colour. the aliens left me with a motion, just a temper, and a need for spelling. there is a place marked somewhere, where this happened. this is my note of attestation.
8) Sarcastic News
the newest execution of detail: that's when the aliens ate soup. we were so delighted. the aliens indicated that they loved the experience, we could just tell. they showed us their rayguns, and examined our possibility. the soup was soon, the soup was condition. we all opened soup cans and poured out our hearts. this is the future, at last, a happy person was heard to say. the aliens finally saw the light. can you claim to have a briefcase or suitable carry-all? an alien was asked. a gizmo translated this into alien understanding. doctors are trees, was the alien's reply. the soup, you like it a lot, and want to take it with you? someone persisted. situational syntax is an ethical matter, was how this alien answered. things grew dark, as if presumed thunderstorms were inherited. holes in the sky grew into a certainty of fear. dictionaries exploded, and so did our dreams. night suddenly lost all picture, just a rare clue without music. the aliens may be angry, people began to decide. a can of soup could be a whole walk thru life. a shattering of futurity may mean something. someone wanted to fill the void: there is squalour, no doubt, and what's with all this disease and fighting? hate groups in West Virginia. this person was reading from the paper. that's my paper, an alien suddenly said. this is my year, another announced. these are my freshmen, came another alien's piping. is the effort worthy of the time it takes to clean up an environmental mess? we all wondered, closeted with reference points that seem merely broken from a mass. the flying saucers look brooding and difficult. people forget to make coffee in the morning. fear and threat are everyday things, like a loose framework beginning with a consonant or attributed to knowledge. essential fuss might be spirit, even lust. menagerie begets association, and someone must explain. the aliens stand still for days at a time, then leave. they give OK sign but absquatulate with haste. oh, they're around here somewhere, we all know. dictionaries cannot always be wrong.
9) Trusty Pattern Seems So
the aliens seem so reliable, present. this dustball that they found comprises an interest, which they regale, feeling sweet. the gushing nightfall thru which they pierce conspires to assuage some symptom to which aliens are prone. blizzard days are just more trifle for the aliens who have come. they look thru our books to see if language has the beat. aliens are stark but they have music in their minds. they let loose with a yelp or two, the essential makeup of craft. landing here is a dynamic response to constitutional concerns. the animal here throbs with a life that contains mere feeling, and the smell of forests. this is a rough time to slide thru, not even considering storm patterns and the flopping nature of our climate. the aliens will improve what they can, with delicacy and interest. their language is a shape of colour that we cannot really know, but inference will suffice.
it's like this, the aliens say, without benefit of a verbal language (they speak by implant). these beams of sunlight in which you swim conspire for a lasting glory to overwhelm your pleasantries. you, pale image, are smaller than telling. you will be fooled by rational reference to the thing at hand. the 'thing' is a strip mine. you know about strip mines. your heaven is a chase and a date. someday, you say to yourself. there is little to add. we come to show you that arrival is tamely rendered in logical colours. each day begins with this tracing.
well of course we are bug eyed to hear such a report. earnest deviation is a thing of the past, we've got to quibble for success. the aliens discharge some energy, and we build replicas of rocketships. our replicas are engaged reminiscences, ten feet tall and covered with aluminum foil. we show our replicas proudly, almost to thwart the preposterous certitude in which the common flock live. the aliens just want to move a star or two, whereas our whole planet wants the oil rights of this distinguished plot of land. the sense of balance seems to fill some undeniable balloon, and the balloon heads for heaven. heaven is a good laugh and will be here in time, ready to implement the needed changes. how pale our intentions are, when we wake late at night to the sound of rockets landing. when we step outside to the waiting aliens, they will hop with surprise. as chosen ones, we are sadly interrupted.
10) Alien Advice
the next alien collective belongs to a scouting project. they come to look at details. we've had them here for years, but didn't always notice. too busy with the mind, and the covers to things. the aliens will surround definition with new appropriation, and will do so flashily. look at that cornfield, where the saucer landed. no human could knock down cornstalks, not with such geometry. we ingest, in the privacy of time. the aliens are particles of a vast indifference, that seeps thru the universe and looks for work. here we are, we've been saying all along. and the aliens, generous as well as torpid, engage. we may play as dust but the aliens will scope our broadcast, check out which drama is the most intense. intention arrives with a plop of an apple on the ground: harvest time! our starry friends will take their time, and maybe some of ours. we will have to reward their patience by doing something excellent. inventing excellence will be a tough job but the aliens know we have it in us. if only we were so sure. sometimes the subject at hand is really afoot.
11) Another Assumed Waste Of Time
they choose wastelands today. those aliens, almost at the centre of something, while they wobble in the night. such mystery, lifted from the edge of proclivity. who will reward these diligent friends dropping from the adipose sky to blanket our nonsense with scope? they demur with a handy cage, and select oddities to understand. our understudies in remote places are the first to see. they rush to the spinning light and are treated with delight. when their word is heard, crazy as a tree, things go underground. the aliens await pastures and the exact livestock to uproot. someone is interested, that's for sure. maybe the hidden moon, that really makes our day, will reveal itself and all our process. the aliens might be in that, tiny but respectable. some days, their shadows in forests simulate a clarity that can't stop. there are burn marks here and there, treatises for the learned. and finally, the authors-that is, the aliens-are released from their duty, and they can just spin around the planet. we should welcome them more heartily: in it is in us. meteors are tough enough to contain, and the way our atmosphere burns messages. the aliens in their saucers rise from the stranded marsh and lift above the world. even quaint covered bridges are refined by mystery. another planet may just be the ticket, but then loneliness will sink us. we are on edge, at this time, tipping terribly.
12) 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 they sound like dolphins--but we are adverse to listening to these 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. there are tears 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 are trying to make. we are relaxed, except when people doubt our story. there is a lot of challenge in the plain work of going on: night skies, filled with dancing close encounters. resistance is a fable. the aliens are proper nouns, at least for now. we are verbal only for so long. things must get on, move along. too much depends on red wheelbarrows, in this day and age. sad to say.
13) Regular Adaptation
green purpose, a deliberation in time. saying which word is first becomes a study in conception. the aliens have us over a barrel. we see that communication is a rational extension of purpose, providing a basis for inquiry and resource. but. clouds fade into news, and the news is about war. war fills the planet, and that's why children cry. sadness is arresting, almost beautiful in its regularity. vast space is the interim between words, points made. people feel triumphant in their precursors, which is a silly, ragged contribution. floods take away something, forests fires take away further. autumn hatches a plan, changing the landscape. the aliens seem to arrive in time, certain of their probe. we are children so we know of the curious ways that might elongate our truths. something curious makes us bend to distinction that aren't really there. war is history, and that understanding is a presumption. what are these aliens including, when they look at us so? years reach climax, and jerks go on rampages. some people are small minded and others are enlarged by practice. rivers are dammed for strange intentions. life is a bundled probability. the aliens stretch the sky and leave us wondering. music rehearses the cargo we planned. trees continue to grow greenly, tho autumn may send a change. tell us, Zzigno, is there winter on your home planet, is there life? death may merely be a sign.
14) Almost Resistant
these aliens are disturbed by the little brook's program thru town. they land in the parking lot of the coffee shop. this is getting old. the weird squeal of the flying saucer no longer makes news. the aliens go beep and strike a bargain with what the hell. the brook offers a strange crisis. what is continuity, in this realm of time fed illusions? the aliens have strained their sense with popular theories and a good raygun. they think they've adapted but. look, we say to zZigno, time's a-wastin'. will you be wanting the universal solvent in your diet? zZigno is, as we understand, a leader of inbound protocol. that means zZigno is in charge. we squandered riches on zZigno: some carrots, a bit of grass. this charged approximation with intent, made surprise a pertinent question. the aliens become enamoured of time, all of them do. this is a first. doubt is an extraction, of course, and they can't resist. some of the aliens want hamburgers, and some want to meet television stars. like most horses, Mr Ed couldn't really talk, we explain fruitlessly. information is a new concept, apparently. the whole perturbed abundance that the aliens offered looks now to be a shade of colour only a movie star could like. and we are not getting our questions answered (where is the end of industry?). how is this helpful? the brook by the coffee shop has taken away their moxie. the aliens just beep, sip mocha lattes and watch the brook. and their saucer is always in the way. we cannot go on like this. presumably, neither can they. real truth needs to weigh more than a bagel, no matter how wonderful that bagel might be. real truth needs to be about more than the collapse of some farcical sun at the back of the universe. real truth needs to redeem all variants with a flash of light and a cruelly apt blunder. the aliens covetously eye our biggest SUVs: we can't have THAT! will they make remarks about the weather soon? the brook proves fundamental, even with that curious shopping cart there that kids (engines of some masquerade) shoved into it. yes, we say, that brook will dissolve rock, the very earth itself. the aliens indicate that they think we don't care. we indicate that we most certainly don't. zZigno's raygun melts into thin air. the air is charged. the aliens clearly need amusement but time lacks the empathy of fulfillment. if the aliens returned to deepest space, would any mark remain behind? they just don't know us well enough. the brook, as we like to say, simply babbles.
15) That Old Pop Lyric, Time
another time in which aliens came by. their conversation with trees took time, but was a willing framework for later destinations. our human interpretation hovered around useless license, engaged in moon phase. they wanted some picture, and fame showed up. the news people caught the idea, of course. they were royally pleasant, bested perhaps but designating newer scale as a matter for further discussion. the aliens soon abandoned the conversant trees, centuries mean nothing. a timeless popstar was postponed (briefly). this was such and such for the aliens. and thrilling. sumptuous ideas of change were scattered on the floor near an alien contingent. these were ignored because the future is always ignorant. people moved closer and started to dance. the aliens were aroused by then. they looked for dust bunnies, simple evidence. it would be hardly natural not to. what is so trim about this ship? the aliens managed to convey, pointing at their excuse for travel. seasons start early, end late. distance is a background sound, ticking away.
FIRING LINE 10/31/01
the figures were there. a book was read, reread, then put down. it was a long study because control. in fact, the people talked. there could only be weathering, friends of peptides. couldn't that grave distinction look stellar, a cluster of insults or factual implications? why the questions as the president bears down? why figure there is room? a noise, tho only an airplane, thunder. a congestion when words are arrows or pointblank amenities. there is nudity and knotholes in the alluvial drift of where were we. here is a plain idea, and here is one all tarted up. the difference is simple. one is on the left and one is on the right. people mask their delight so that the test may retain validity. a weather balloon, it seems to be outmoded. and yet, the spacious skies still breed odd assurances, unveiled at times. what, then, is given? a look down a barrel of a gun, tho that is just imaginary. there could be time to establish funding, a richness in language. the barrel is full of monkeys, wet ones, which is one way of keeping. John Ashbery moves to the house next door: that will serve an equable news frequency like change at the bottom of a drawer. why are we present when guns go off? why are bombs so sedimentary? who brought landmines to the top? the queasiness implied by any question simply fuels the engine further. a loving embrace may take time, but then: time needed taking. meanwhile, those figures, they seem to sag into the landscape again. they must be people, or a similar cause. let us then alleviate the institute, for minutes at a time.
MENTION MUNDANE LOGICALLY (EMOTIONAL RESPONSE) 9/29/01
the gestures are probably repayment, feral in the field for which (children are branded with the instance they heard.
the country goes coaxial, connected by this to that, forever or enough. the talk will absorb and then (yardage and becoming afraid.
delinquent endeavour, in the eyes of that rational momentum, here we come (was your child iffy enough, listening to those theories?
diffidence fills the country whelm, doctored for preparing (and the losses are terrific.
divvied up the expected gloom, for a national sake while proving (lack of proof.
botched cycle. plan of attack goes into the bin with the other things. today may be too late.
so I was inventing a needful collaboration when, in the offing, there could be seen. that was luckily, affording a calm in a season…
lost in this was amenity, the back part of the forward thinking program. a wily system has grown, to tell us of place, and where place goes when we are not looking. this is an address.
poetry sent me to a statement that was ready to curve. that was factual basis in a roaming charge. mildly absurd convenience rises to blemish. I'm appalled by these…
constant opinion in a political state reminds us of seasonings for our salad.
TESTIMONY PRANK 10/31/01
fancy indifference, the collective patch on earthly quarry.
a ritual entirely filled with balloons and natural given.
whereas astonishment controls features relayed by debt and trade, the network steeps pull of logic, tilled language, a right of process.
shifted from vague principles to a more wary garnishment as a law-giving society lives and breathes, seeding the turbulent garden with excesses of virtue. or so we say
trapping a special lasting smell.
buoyed by regencies that will eventually turn over the keys of the car to a new drama, the legal sort then, buying into that mode-as should we all-there is a still moist upbringing. it will have an electrical charge.
merrily, then, a political unit that is unafraid to fear its own franchise. it finds its tools in everyday things, like skin or life. then, moneyed to beat the band, or anything else, there comes the time when the socked in environment just won't do. people get ready.
left of this, in the different generation, there is a floored stance, withstanding all manner of drumbeats and lilt. people will perform as expected.
TOPIC SENTENCE 9/8/01
luckily dogs can fly. they have distance in their teeth. they are too human.
a melon green fairly swishes over the countryside, depositing astronauts in unlikely places, their imaginations almost buried. can I park your car? asks the astronaut of anyone. a dog lands nearby, happy to have an excuse to go. the astronaut takes a car away, honking a delightful horn.
the mountain is perplexing in its anonymity. a dog lands there next, in a busy time. it must be a brand new day. we will all hope for the best.
boundless energy fills these trees, here. a dog examines the trees, pees on them, allows consideration to form. an astronaut politely inquires if he could pick the apples, and sell them. profits would go to charity. dog indicates affirmative.
the features of a simple dog appear on the moon. an astronaut, working in a library, is asked about this feature thru out the day. it is a busy day.
a dog is injured by a flying implication, which was set loose unexpectedly. an astronaut fixes the broken leg with admirable care. the dog will be all right, the astronaut will manage.
an astronaut repairs a car, using only noodles for tools. uncooked noodles work nicely to torque screws in and out. a bagful of noodles can be used hammer fashion. you can worm al dente linguine into the fuel line, cleaning out obstruction. a dog, watching the astronaut work, nods approval.
a piano lands on the moon, no one knows why. how isn't even a question, not in these answerable days. that piano seems unimportant there in these dog days of something to say.
UTTERING FRANCHISE 11/1/01
miracle and blue, a turn of phrase. something simple attracts those taking advantage. the aliens notice the ceremonial ways. targets have been sighted, and along diverse liens attempts are made. there is interest, to understand the stranglehold. it is a breathlessness, someone insists, for there is time in such phrases. music loses some sap but remains viable, like a dog or tree, rather than an institute. it is hard to understand how a target can remain, being there and understood. light will be drawn into the muddled dialogue. that is to say, the disaster will fit the peculiar time now. the aliens aren't feasting, they simply land in cornfields. discovery of their work will raise no fuss…
bluer, along the coast, say. ramification of water, of a wide sky, of something so deep and possible. our poets have their work cut out for them. the World Series won't budge, people are ready. they eye the natural prize. the aliens are victims of a greater universe, so large that no one smiles. there is an outcry, tho some call it war. why does upheaval have so many different spellings?
a panoply of devices. ready. war games. sites and nearly. venting steam over these and other issues… the aliens are nowhere to be seen. came and left, or just gave up existing in such a dormant condition. who knows. the air is apparent, frosty, darkening too quickly. trust means some government agency has selected us. more work, more disappointment…