If each thing we write, every poem or story, is a piece of jigsaw that tells of our experience, our influences, of how we connect different things up to make something hopefully unique and interesting, then I am not sure where this poem fits. I've been toying with a number of ideas recently. I was struck by reading about the dubious flying saucer expert George Adamski repeatedly meeting aliens [who looked just like you and me] in Los Angeles in the early 1950's. I just love the way he made each planet in the solar system sound so homely, like small town America.
George Adamski's in the Pontiac's back
seat,
the
driver is from Saturn, next to George sits
a
Venusian, who bigs up the mundane, claims
to
like tv and respect the institution of marriage.
He
feeds the con man a white bread vision, the solar system
as
some banal B-movie town, where everyone smiles.
Old
George for his part, keeps silent about
the
flying saucer he's building in the garage.
You
see, he needs proof, something people will believe in.
When
he stands in front of paying audiences,
not
even his honest eyes can quite swing it.
So
that chicken incubator heat lamp housing
will
be made to fly on film. The Venusian
doesn't
care that his world is a nightmare of
green
house gasses gone made. That'll come out later,
[after
people stop seeing Adamski-type ufos]
-just
tell the earthlings what they want to hear
and
everyone's happy, save Amelia Earhart. Who is either
a
bored housewife hitting the highballs at eleven am. Or
an
incomplete set of bones on a Pacific island.
You
takes your pick -some
realities are more fun than others.
 |
| This is the saucer |
 |
| Here's another view |
 |
| Amelia at the controls of Electra |
I have to leave you with Plainsong and The True Story of Amelia Earhart.
No comments:
Post a Comment