The Arrival of the Editors

I’ve parked my saucer just behind the fence
beside the shopping mall. I plan to blend
unnoticed in the crowd. I will pretend
to be an Earthling. I believe they sense
there’s something odd about me. I’ll commence
my plan of action when the Guardians send
the stun gunners. Their saucer should descend
before too long. I’m starting to feel tense.

I might take home a small one as a pet.
The older Earthlings seem too handicapped
to come with us. A small one will forget.
We’ll tie the Earthlings up inside a net
and haul them off to Mars. They may adapt
and if they don’t I certainly won’t fret.


[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited August 13, 2004).]

Thistledown man sleeps on, sleeps on,
and dreams our lives. We are his dream
and should he wake we’ll all be gone.

Alien Abduction II

When Richard Cheney woke Convention morning,
he had a sense of great lightheadedness:
perhaps, he thought, the new Code Orange warning
(called to distract from the Iraqi mess)
had made him edgy – possibly the fawning
Haliburton team now caused slight stress.
His mind felt pierced by some abnormal, weird
and foreign entity. The French, he feared,

put something in my food. He loathed New York
and all its libs – desired an undisclosed
location, secret, snug - where he could talk
to Novak, privately and undeposed,
not feel as if his head was on a stalk,
or that some fuckhead Senator had nosed
into his bidness. New York set off alarms:
it did not welcome him with open arms.




[This message has been edited by Michael Cantor (edited August 14, 2004).]

Thistle grows under a bench,
saw above a pretty wench.
Fell in love.

Sang a thistle whistle song,
hoping it would reach her ear,
She didn’t hear

A pernicious weed-killer spray
reorganized his DNA,
and he changed.

Grew two handsome shiney shoes
stylish pointy,
very French.
Grew into an overcoat,
very trench.

See him sitting on the bench
next to Wench.

Surprised wench-lady sees him there,
loves his puffy fuzzy hair,
plucks his thistles

one by one,
love me love me not was fun,
then came a breeze.

Thistles made her sneeze,
blew the fuzz up her nose,
up she rose,

thinking now of Joe and Jim,
not of him.
Just a whim.

Left him sitting very bare,
trying to grow back his hair.
A bad affair.

He's been sitting there a year,
not belonging here nor there.
Sad affair.

Sitting underneath the tree,
what a tragedy,
waiting for more chemo tea
to set him free.

.




[This message has been edited by Florence Campi (edited August 15, 2004).]

No more poems - the time is up. Let the voting begin. Voting ends on Aug. 21st, midinght Erato time.

I vote for nyctom. I'm only sorry he's my friend, so the vote seems cronyesque; but of all the poems it's the most mysterious/seious by far IMO. I like it very much.

Robt.

You mean we're supposed to vote in public?

I liked Christy Elizabeth's "Evy Ivy Over" the best because I felt like it went hand in hand with the photo.

That's how we've always done the Photo Challenges, it's just for fun (and one of Robt, stunning prints), but if anyone would like to vote secretly they can PM me.

If I'm allowed to vote I vote for Roger's poem. It made me laugh a lot.


(Terese's came a close second.)

Janet
But as Tom said--I will abstain if it's not permitted. I only voted because hardly anyone is here and very few people participated.

[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited August 17, 2004).]