OMAHA, NE, USA

 

OMAHA, NE, USA

 

OMAHA, NE, USA

 

OMAHA, NE, USA

 

BROWNVILLE, NE, USA

 

BROWNVILLE, NE, USA

 

OMAHA, NE, USA

 

OMAHA, NE, USA

 

OMAHA, NE, USA

 

OMAHA, NE, USA

 

OMAHA, NE, USA

 

OMAHA, NE, USA

   An Attest To Lit Infinite 

He wanted   me to know 

that we are not alone; indeed, 

that there are most certainly others. 

And here having established that 

these said ‘others’ are not of this world, 

it was surely not to say that they 

be considered that of illegal aliens. 

Not like they’d crossed open borders 

to here pick our precious cabbage. 

No, what he wanted me to grasp 

was that there was an   

astronomical agenda here at hand. 

And I mean, he had a point, right?

Being as he was indigenous—

original Native American an all—

he wanted me to know that all of this 

held far more magnitude than the 

existence of any mere U.S. of A;

being as such an issue was of a 

far vaster intergalactic matter and 

of supra-celestial significance.

Listen, it was simply a matter of fact 

that it was obviously “The Greys’’ 

who had built all our mighty pyramids. 

Them and most certainly not those 

   Egyptians or Cambodians. 

That nor the Incas, Mayans or Aztecs, 

for in no way would they have been able 

to calculate hypotenuse before bug-eyed 

extraterrestrials came into the astro-equation. 

It was those “Greys”… 

Those Greys of such grey-brain-matters.

Sure, he had seen them. 

Seen their shimmering spacecrafts 

silhouetted against the moon.

Had photographs to prove it. 

Indeed, all such proof was there on his phone 

but the authorities (yea, those authorities)… 

them sly bastards had stolen his proof. 

And all of this would have been of little matter, 

but for the fact that said Grey aliens used 

their own antiphones for 

nefariously antimatters. 

Forget about his phone, for 

he’d here attest his ability to 

coyly communicate said matters 

of interstellar magnitude. 

He… He talked to the stars themselves. 

They of a pulsating plasma magma 

   absent hemoglobal blood-suds. 

They of arterial radiance oozing forth 

   hydrogen and helium, 

and what with a given ignitable 

    solar-gravitas, were 

ever prone to sparkle. 

And here the overall consensus is that 

stars severely lack in cordial conversation.

A concept deemed utterly absurd and yet 

for us to converse with imaginary beings 

is a presumption of which we fully accept.

Listen: 

He talks to stars and they to him. 

Oh, and just who is to say that he is insane? 

Oh, and I? 

I for one here envy him. 

Envy that an entire galaxy 

might choose to converse 

with him and  him only. 

He who by cosmic comparison, 

now eclipses that of our Sun.  

Be he astro-yes to this mine given astro-not, 

how is it that we could both currently share 

this same expanse of concrete sidewalk? 

And how is it that I might here 

   possibly feel his superior? 

For was it not I at the age of five 

who once on a fissile Forth of July, 

there stood beneath those coveted heavens 

   with a sparkler alit in each hand? 

I writing script cross the ink of a supernal sky,  

via cryptic circles and spiraling arcs 

of which only the Milky Way 

might ere comprehend. 

These mine own myopic meteor matters,  

all whilst he in his coveted cosmic commune 

emits shimmering showers of super-novas. 

Yes, and here I now stand in this darkened pall;

I with my sparkler fizzled, and 

this scintilla of self   snuffed out. 

c 2025 Jack David Hubbell

 

OMAHA, NE, USA

 

OMAHA, NE, USA

 

OMAHA, NE, USA

 

OMAHA, NE, USA

 

OMAHA, NE, USA