Klaatu called, he wants his shiny metallic object back

 

Klaatu says howdy as Gort looks for weapons to melt.

Klaatu says howdy as Gort scans for potential weapons to melt.

Professor Barnhart, the smartest man in the world, contacted the offices of Sacred Clone Chronicles with news of a communication he received from Klaatu.

“Moriblaz kliphm noopro lantupulo psyrintlib maraclin,”said Klaatu, according to Barnhart.

“It goes on like this for about eight hundred pages or so,” said Barnhart. “Here, I’ll read it to you: Moncli nadoplictonrinca sphlectisto marapulo victu marinngane….  And then on page 477 the whole tone of the message changes after the word ‘Boyonce.’ Turns out that’s how the pronounce Beyonce in their language.”

Translation: You know, you guys haven’t changed a bit since we left. All those people joining together for a moment of unity, right where we landed back in 1951 of y0ur Earth years, and the biggest news of the event is that Beyonce lip synced. All societies on this end of the galaxy are amazed you still haven’t destroyed your planet. 

deny dean eye

I got in trouble for the first time when I lied about getting on the Dean’s List. The job, that job, the one I had, almost had at that time and indeed would have in a very short time and for a very short time, seemed so important at the time. And so, during the interview I let something slip out, just a sideways mention of it as an off-off-handed comment, just a non-important tossing of a salad. Eyebrows raised. I blushed like a school secretary with too much cleavage. None of this made the difference as to whether or not I got hired. Continue reading deny dean eye

Carrier Wave

The music, don’t worry, carries away in a shopping basket,

Frozen peas for a pillow, cool and soft, warm and sweet.

Words and sounds decay through the air we breathe a dozen

Breaths per minute, inhale, exhale, difficult as the task it

Has become, to the point of exhaustion as we merely complete

A sentence, something we’ve done so thoughtlessly–those inch-

Long phrases never measuring up or down or any direction we

Let our subjects wander. Most years we never saw coming until

Here upon us, life’s bellows, or billows, squeezed Smitty’s

Little accordion. One note only hissing at wood, a ship, a tree.

The wind fills our solidly trimmed sails, fade in the sun, still,

Placid as a mirror you can hold like that pillow. Split peas

Softening with age, so much younger than friends we forget

As they have forgotten us, little frozen spheres the flash

Of which is well thawed on the way home, green as the day

Pods ripped and spilled them, anonymous mass in conveyors of wet

Produce, boiled without tattoos, without arms, hoarded in a cache

Below instant zero, static until now, until the steam bouquet

Blooms against the ceiling. And this, baptism by water, total

Immersion, you know, is the best way to learn a new language,

Heated so that surface swirls curl back in waves without foam.

No games here. All these little balls. No games. A gravy mote

Around the starchy white castle, guards awaiting the changes,

Press their forks into the road as lovers lying awake at home.

Incapable Tongue

What is worse than beginning a poem with single question?
Would you agree that two questions at the beginning of a
Poem are worse than one? How could such questions improve
This rhetoric when readers simply won’t agree the best one
Is their last and, most likely, only distraction. Designer Java
Tides erode smiles, warming tongues that gracefully move
From subject to object, rich bitter concentrated dark language,
The kind that burns as it comes and goes, in and out your throat.
That acid, some sort of tannin, citrus hinted, a day off vinegar
If somebody doesn’t check the temperature before the damage
Sets in. The edge of stone tumbles through your nostrils, you note
The involuntary exhale as part of the story, the marvelous command
This half-ounce wields over you during, fulfilling, the moment
For which it was created, when taster and tasted merge. Active
Consumes passive. Passive overwhelms active in the pleasure,
No, not the pleasure, the complexity, the gathering of ancient
History into a brief present, the memory rehearsed as you relive
The subtleties of generations gathered along the yellowed denture,
Pooling at the gate of duct and vein, the wet blue underside of glisten
And gland. You want to spit. But you refrain. That’s part of the ride.
It wants you to do what it wants you to do, not what you want to do.
The is more complicated than you had ever imagined. Clenched fist in
Your face, the back of your hand funnels your breath along side
Lips and into lungs, one of each, in the same symmetry of
A squeaking door opening and closing, its trio of hinges
singing to and fro, each its own beginning, middle and end.

Current world population (estimated): .

This free script provided by
JavaScript Kit