Unpasted but still glued to us, kindergarten spooks
On white construction paper. They are not us;
They are no longer us; they are different from us:
Pakistan, Lithuania, New Guinea, driving cabs in New York City,
Anyone who doesn’t hail from Hollywood, and isn’t blonde and pretty,
They are danger, monster-us. Not like us. We’re good.
They are vampires, banshees, Martians. The night wood.
They fly inhumanly divergent from our scissors
And our sketchpads and our Elmer’s glue.
Crayola-green little men. Paper tigers, Kleenex ghosts and witches.
Animals. Those pointy-hatted bitches bleed. Those girls are animals.
But still like us, alas; love is blind; our old blind spot.
They are the animal part of us that we forgot;
Like a cancer tumour, the part of us now extraterrestrial.
The dreaded diagnosis inconclusive. It will be a close encounter.
They will come from Planet 9 from outer space; they will attack from Mars,
And from even angrier red planets; they will all come,
It will ultimately be proved, from the third rock from the sun.
They will look like Harrison Ford; they will have pointy eyebrows and cool logic;
They will look like grumpy robots; they will look like apes; they will look like us.