We Are Out There

Area 51 reruns itself. Tube-fed alien hitchhikers hideout in paper suits and sweat mercury. Mothers in desert tan caravans bleach breakfast, call skinny kids in, mid-century ray guns glitter in sparking hands. Comical signs on shimming roads to nowhere direct and redirect at will. New Mexico keeps its spells While headlines change minds. Local Maps are 10 dollars further. We want to stay cool with a low maintenance blond in an adobe dabbed motel but there are silver balloons out there they are made of desert dreams. Tequila stained shotguns hunt aluminum tracks. In government condo’s workers pack for a ride to an unnamed airport No name tags please, no indications of culpability, just load your life point it between two trailing stars shoot the gawking rumors wherever they appear to fly from.