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Poetry of Issue #8        Page 81


My skin is kaleidoscopic.
It’s all colors.
Yes, I’m a freak.

I’m not white. Or brown.
Or yellow. Not red
or black. All colors.

Because of this I live
in a lagoon I found
when I landed

on this planet
of fools obsessed
with meaningless colors.

The planet of Stupid
I call it. I love,
though, the beautiful

women, the inhabitants
with the true power.
Soon, they could disappear.

You see, I’m a visionary.
I remotely hack your computers
because I invented that talent.

Others, too. I live in the minds
of your brightest scientists,
most accomplished artists,

and predict your world
will vanish into vapor
like the other planets

I’ve explored with hope.
But you haven’t heeded
the warnings of your fragile home:

Your winds howl like mad coyotes.
Your ice melts like vague memories.
You humans kill everything:

Children with garlands
of roses around their heads,
cities with their steel

sculptures of beheaded angels
and raped goddesses that remind
me barbarians are still present.

They are few, but too many
for your kind to survive,
too few generous souls that soar.

But I’m leaving. Like Autumn.
I have twelve seats available
for six women and six men.

Email me your resumes today.
Only painters, prophets, writers,
a farmer, a nun, a carpenter, a bum.

And after we leave this melancholy
planet, we’ll scatter our piety
and create all that could have been.

  David Spicer