by R Ross Johnston
Blood flows, the heart pounds stronger in reply to gathering tension.
Blue eyes strive to focus beneath slits, regaining the gift of sight.
Evasive dream states fade slowly before awakening sensual perception.
Dreaming, I know I was dreaming pleasant dreams just one second past.
Moons, three moons did appear at the North’s distant, frozen horizon.
Pale scarlet radiances softly combined, rising gently into the night,
aspiring to displace the dissolving crimson glow from the Lesser Sun.
Three bright crescents have come to display their solemn affirmation
that another Sacred Day of Ancient Covenant has just recently passed.that another
Sacred Day of Ancient Covenant has just recently passed.
Pleasant ruminations fail to persist, weakened, they melt to reveal
the brutal, solitary pain of abandonment.
Comforting reflections are reluctantly discarded
in preparation for another day’s quest to survive.
So many hours loom before me, full with vanished hope to conceal..
Add one to the sinister count of mornings dedicated to the self-tormentt
of grieving recrimination over the chronicle of misfortunes initiated
on that day when upon this world I did arrive.
Stuck fast to this land, my entire corporal existence consists merely
of sixty-four fragile microunits, each a cloned cell.
I am sickened to recall how these robust cells were literally painted
onto the inside back of a living human skull.
Enough of my vital tissue to allow me to tap firmly
into the very mind of this organism that I now know so well.
One step back from Satan, my creature’s immortal soul is unaffected,
only these meager intellectual resources are mine to control.
Without consent, this body was taken far from its earthly home,
then returned without memory of a voyage, no trace of ordeal or trial,
to its state of innocent immaturity, age fifteen.
All within the period of one Earth solar revolution,
less than five weeks passed on Deneb’s third world, Thessaly.
Now our life has become so much a product of the beauty known
as Eastern Ohio, experiences of people and of the Sixties awhile.
Returned in June of 1947, bearing alterations unsensed and unseen.
As born, but for these bits of alien perception,
a certain exotic cognition which is me.a certain exotic cognition which is me.
Hazy abreactions haunt my thoughts, instructing me to flee to safety.
Slowly, without intention, I stumble away from the sand dunee
where I had landed intact, protected by the escape capsule.
I glance back over the barren desert, faintly lighted by flashes
of the small, orange fireball that emanates into a fiery mist
above the once-sleek craft that had represented a ticket home for me.
Bound for Ohio, a false beacon directed us into a large weather balloon
over New Mexico, lost hope signified by twisted globs of melted metal.
How quickly were my fellow travelers transformed into ashes
within that misshapen monument, those three well-meaning scientists.
Back home, a long while back, I was tricked by these men of science
into volunteering for a project designed to `gather information’.
They got this young student of medicine high on Pimento wine
then told me that I was signing a petition
favoring the extension of Daylight Savings Time.
They watched as I signed on to this project through unfair influence,
those misguided, trusted, patronizing advocates of coercion.
Living pieces of my essence were surgically removed and I asked to resign.
My pledge could not be valid if obtained through deception.
The privilege to join this strange endeavor I preferred to decline.
Regardless, my pleas unheeded, divided, there I remain and here I am,
light-years from the parent-host that was once solely me.
Three weeks of thumbing time out of Roswell to arrive
at my true destination near East Liverpool.
Abandoned by my race, I knew only to follow my instructions
and to vainly await rescue from this weird program.
Sensing the thoughts and emotions of others is a natural ability
that serves only to impede my efforts to survive.
Expected to interact with the indigenous creatures, I feel like a fool.
My own thoughts are often overwhelmed by the flood of incoming emotions.
“Where were you in 1933?”, I sometimes ask of a person chosen randomly.
This was to be my magical, secret confirmation of contact with my kind.
Blank stares are returned to this alien, unnatural of two creations.
I am Voodoo, a homeless outcast of almighty science gone wrong.
I am perversion times two, victim of knowledge denude of morality.
Science is no god worthy of worship, tool of Satan’s tyranny.
The Wisdom of Age has arrived for the parent-host that I left behind.
Many changes are not experienced through four distant solar revolutions.
My plight, unknown to the one who was once me, remains so hopelessly wrong.