Alien Outlook

Forty Years from now
Will I have enough soul to lift one leg
High above the other
And kick
At my greatest fears?
The forecast calls for aliens
Or so says the bald astronaut
On my alabaster television set.
Wonder if they'll bring treats.
Barks the dog.
I haven't an answer
A single clue.
A single drop of creativity in my rusty
Lusty bones.
I don't questions anything anymore.
I simply follows my gut.
Follow it down the hall to the kitchen where I
Eat shit made out of skin.

It won't be until I scramble all the meat
Out of my hot iron stove
That I shall return to my alabaster television set
And find
That the bald astronaut on the television,
He was an alien all along.