A Poem by Alan Britt for the Aliens Are Us Project



He slides a flame beneath a strand

of Wallendas rope that snaps above the cavern.

The web billows: children tumble, Aunts, 3rd Cousins

& Las Lloronas who prowl on Magic Moons.


An RV made of oxygen & light descends

upon a gypsy camp in Manhattan. Out bounces

aliens with rubber arms and melaleuca breath—

when one alien takes this little Roma with black moons

for eyes & brown knuckles dipped in coffee.


The hour is palpable as the alien’s rubber fingers

vine the copper wrist of Ángelita

& blow a kiss into her brain, thus,

switching on lights in the barrio,

tugging cotton string & brass chain bulbs

in kitchens known as Hell, illuminating

every museum & cathedral, every gas station,

every city hall & boardroom of the bored,

each stitch in the throat of every mockingbird

that fell out of love, every pronoun soaked

in olive oil, each filament of astral

atom dancing down 185 in Oakland,

US 1 in Miami, 42nd in NYC,

while sweeping paint across every solid surface

in the known universe.


~Alan Britt…5/5/12…11:47PM


“There’s no title to it.”

“There’s no title to it.”

You know it’s funny, I think my first exposure to aliens and alienation happened in one synchronous moment.  I was about five years old and my parents took me to see E.T. at the movie theater.  Right away I felt some strong connection to the chocolate covered character.  I was completely enamored by his vulnerability, difference and loneliness.  At one point in the film E.T. is lying in some storm drain, sickly and gray, after running and hiding to avoid his persecution and inevitable dissection by human hands.  In the theater, quiet whimpers and sniffles filled the air of movie goers trying desperately to subdue their deep pain and emotion.  Suddenly, a loud shriek filled the air and my father jolted, turned to me and quickly evacuated me from the room.  Yeah, I think that’s where I got my first taste of it.  I was the alien, I wasn’t afraid to cry loudly, whole heartedly, unafraid.


Since that day, I have always known that I was different, estranged in my marriage to society.  To this day I alienate myself in booze, isolated with barbed wire for a heart.  I wonder how Einstein must have felt around his peers… second graders.  A hundred billion galaxies, how can we be alone?  E.T., my friend, we are all alone, and running from the ones who will inevitably make lab rats of us all.

-Michael Vaughan