The supply ship pulled alongside the landing bay. The doors opened and a stream of bodies and equipment poured down the gangway. After half an hour of greetings and salutes and introductions, a single figure appeared at the top of the gangway. The Colonel looked up to behold the new alien species.

“Ah. The Atlantian,” he thought.

The alien cleared the opening of the ship’s narrow hatch and stood to his full height—almost eight feet tall. His slender figure made him look taller than he actually was. His legs were longer than his torso, so he covered much ground in just a few strides. His pale complexion accentuated his yellow eyes which seemed to glow and bulge in the morning light. But what really set the young scientist off from other aliens the Colonel had encountered was the shape of his head—the distinct ellipse of an egg. He had no hair, no eyebrows, and no facial hair, just two eyes, a small slit for a mouth, and a small crease for a nose. He was a walking, talking breakfast egg.

In just five strides the young scientist reached the bottom of the gangway and stood before the colonel.

“Reporting for assignment, sir,” said the scientist, extending his hand in greeting.

Williams struggled to respond, still processing the image of the tall and lanky researcher. Delayed by his momentary embarrassment, the Colonel extended his hand in friendly greeting as well. The two shook hands as the Colonel found his tongue.

“Ah, yes. Of course. Good to have you here,” stammered the Colonel.

“My name is Piapong Sumetikong, but you can call me Egg.”

Williams’ mouth dropped open and his eyes grew wide.

“Excuse me?”—unsure if he had heard him correctly.

“Most humanoids from your planet have difficulty with my Atlantian name, so I offer them my nickname,” he answered with a courteous tone.

The Colonel found himself in conflict. Duty and professionalism demanded he treat the new scientist with respect and courtesy, but the idea of calling the young alien “Egg” summoned up a mad laughter that he could not fully control. He swallowed hard.

“Is that what they called you back at the academy? School boy pranks can be so cruel,” he offered.

“Oh, no, sir. That is my Atlantian nickname. In our own language it means ‘brave one,’ but it is a very old form of the language.”

This caused the Colonel to snicker, which he immediately stifled.

“Let me get this straight. Your Atlantian nickname is Egg. And it means ‘brave one.’”

The corners of his mouth turned up for just a moment before he was able to wrestle them down again trying his best not to offend his new scientist.

“That is correct.”

“Very well, then… Egg. Welcome to the research colony at Oceana. We’ll talk more once you’ve settled in. That’s all for now. Join the Lieutenant there at the airlock to the ‘nest.’ She’ll show you to your quarters.”

His breath was shallow as he fought to control the laughter that swirled within him.

“The ‘nest,’ sir?” he inquired.

“Oh, sorry. The compound where we find our living quarters. We call it the ‘nest,’” replied the Colonel.

“I see. A lovely name. A nest is a place of safety in which birds hatch their young. I look forward to finding my place in the ‘nest.’ Thank you, sir.”

The Atlantian turned to go, and was gone from view in just a few strides. The Colonel then snickered—a small, low laugh. Then another. Tears filled his eyes as an uncontrollable laughter overtook him. He was grateful he was alone.

Three weeks had passed since the supply ship delivered its store of goods and roster of new recruits. Colonel Williams had spent most of that time avoiding contact with the majority of his new crew. He had encountered Egg on two occasions the first week; on both encounters he found himself in a losing battle with the ridiculous need to laugh, snicker, and giggle. A snort even found its way out through his nasal passages just when he thought he might be gaining his composure. It was then he decided it was best to just avoid contact with the new alien altogether, a decision that made his job as commander more difficult. So much so that he was contemplating a visit to the base physician to see if there could be another explanation for the uncontrollable giggles he experienced when speaking with the Atlantian. He had also noticed that the morale of the colony was surprisingly upbeat—dare he say joyous—since the arrival of the new recruits.

Another week had passed. The Colonel was hiding in his office as usual when the alarms began to sound. The alarm system was seldom used, and was installed primarily as an early warning system for acid rain, meteor showers, or other atmospheric disturbances. It had been used twice for missing personnel. Williams headed out the door to consult with his aide-de-camp.

“Jones! What’ve we got?” barked the Colonel.

“It’s the new alien, sir,” she said with a military edge.

“What about him?”

“He’s dead, sir.”

“Dead?” Williams said, expecting anything but this. “Where’d they find him?

“Just beyond the rim, near the water supply,” Jones reported.

“What do we know so far?”

“I’ll leave the final determination to you, sir, but it appears to be foul play.”

“What do you mean, ‘foul play’? This is Oceana. We run a scientific research facility. In the fifteen years of my command we have never had a single incident of criminal behavior or violent intent. And you’re telling me we suddenly have a murder on our hands?”

“Yes, sir,” Jones replied. “His head was cracked open like an—” She knew she shouldn’t say it.

“Like an egg?”

“Yes, sir. Like an egg.”

This wasn’t at all funny. The Colonel knew that. Jones knew that. Despite what they knew, Williams found himself once again wrestling with a snicker. He returned to his office, holstered a seldom-seen side arm, and returned.

“Is everything alright, sir?”

“Yes, Lieutenant, everything is just fine. I’m just a little concerned about morale. I don’t want the research team running around thinking there’s a killer out there waiting for them.”

“No, sir. We don’t want that,” Jones replied. “I guess we need to tread lightly. A bit like walking on egg shells.”

The Colonel snorted. Embarrassed, he reprimanded Jones for her impertinence.

“We’ve gotta handle this right, Jones. We don’t want to be the cause of an interplanetary incident. We don’t want—” He stopped mid-sentence.

“What?” replied Jones. “Egg on our face?”

Again with the snort. And then a chuckle. Jones joined him in a red-faced response to the absurdness of their situation. The Colonel was angry at himself, but was also at a loss for the malady that was attacking his funny bone. He could not explain it, but he found the whole notion of the young researcher laid out on the ground quite funny, his yellow brains spilling out of his cracked head like the yolk of an egg.

“Jones! I hereby order you to show more respect to the victim. He was, after all, a respected member of our expedition. I understand that he was an ‘egg-cellent’ researcher.”

The young lieutenant found her funny bone assaulted as well.

“Yes, sir. Egg-ceptional, I am sure.”

“Enough of that now!” Williams retorted. “We cannot tolerate such impudence.”

“No sir. We cannot. No egg-ceptions allowed.”

The two gave in to an uncontrollable laughter, tears filling their yellowing eyes.

“Let’s see the crime scene,” said Williams, his teeth clenched and his face red. “Move out! Now!”

“Yes, sir!”

They stumbled out the office door into the hallway only to discover a half-dozen colonists bent from fits of laughter. The Colonel smiled at the sight, but his eyes narrowed and his brow knitted. The thought that had occurred to him earlier in the week returned. Could the laughing malady be more than just happenstance?

“Jones! We need to find the doctor, and quickly,” he snorted. “Where is he?”

“He is probably at the crime scene, sir.”

“Very well then! Let’s get going.”

They moved along the hallway heading to the checkpoint that led to the outer rim of the encampment. All movement to the outer encampment was monitored at the checkpoint. Along the hallways they encountered more laughing and cackling and mocking. A group of technicians—gathered at the water purifier—warbled an old children’s rhyme:

“Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again!” sang the crew.

Another duet sang with drunken abandon of “eggstra-terrestrials tall and lean.”

The women in the group pulled wildly at their own hair, yanking handfuls of hair from their scalps. Others stumbled to the floor holding their heads, complaining of pressure behind the eyes, and moaning in pain. And everywhere he turned, the Colonel saw the eyes of his crew turning distinct shades of yellow.

“The doctor?!” Williams yells out to the crew in the hallway. “Has anyone seen the doctor?”

No answer. Just a frightful blend of laughter and pain in response. Williams picked up the pace. And despite the laughter that contorted his face, on the inside he was no longer laughing. Jones stumbled along behind him.

They passed through the checkpoint and ventured out towards the ridge. They reached the ridge in less than three minutes, passing researchers and technicians along the way, each suffering the same malady of laughter and pain as their counterparts inside. They reached the prone body of the Atlantian, stopping in terror at the sight of his egg-shaped head split down the middle with a yellow brain leaking out in a fluid of clear goo. And then they broke into cackles and screams of laughter.

Williams and Jones both had difficulty catching their breath, so severe were their fits. Leaving Jones behind, the Colonel stumbled off again to the nest.

“Doctor!” he screamed out again and again. “Where are you!”

Once inside, the Colonel found his crew on the floor. All of them. What he saw next made him wonder if his eyes deceived him. The men and women of his crew held their heads, writhing in pain, but the shape of their heads seemed to be in flux. Undulating like gelatin or soft fruit. The screaming had given way to low moans and states of unconsciousness. He stumbled down the hallways to the infirmary, hoping the doctor was in.

The infirmary was filled with a dozen or more bodies. Lifeless bodies. Headless bodies. The walls were covered with a spray of grey matter.

“Come in, Colonel. I’ve been expecting you,” spoke a calm voice from the next room.

With trepidation in his heart, and laughter on his face, and a growing pain and pressure behind his forehead, Williams stepped forward to see who spoke to him with such calm. The doctor’s familiar form stood before him, recognizable in shape and size, but on the shoulders of the body was an egg-shaped head.

“Doctor?” he grunted.

“No, Colonel. It’s me. Egg.”

“That’s not possible… where is the doctor?”

“He is gone… no more to be seen.”

“No! I saw you outside… on the ground… dead.”

“Ah, that is true. The body I traveled with previously is no more,” he confessed. “But this is my body now. And its previous inhabitant is now gone.”

“What are you doing to us?” Williams demanded.

“I am giving birth, of course. Isn’t it obvious?”

Williams’ instinct for flight kicked in. He turned to run, but found his way blocked by a dozen of his new recruits. Just moments ago they were lifeless bodies missing their heads. Now they stood erect, each donning a shiny new head shaped like an egg. The pain in his own head grew stronger, the pressure reaching unbearable levels.

“What have you done to us?!” Williams demanded.

“To you? Oh no, Colonel. I am not concerned with you, but with them. These are my children. Once each solar century we Atlantians venture forth into the galaxy to lay our eggs. It is a time of joy… and laughter. The joy you have experienced in recent weeks is the work of Atlantian pheromones, which accompany the spores I released into the air you breathe. You received the spores with gladness and incubated my young, nourishing them with your laughter. And then, when the time is right, they hatch inside their hosts and give new expression to the life that has hatched them, which is what you see before you. They are grateful—as am I. For I also receive new birth through the incubation process. I live eternally through the many hosts I occupy.”

“You cannot do this!” groaned the Colonel.

“I already have. You are the last of the crew. Only you remain. When the process is complete in you, we will depart and return home once again.”

The Colonel reached for his pistol, firmly grasping the handle. Through the pain of transformation, he lifted the pistol to his own head, his finger on the trigger.

“You’ll not have me.”

“Oh, Colonel Williams. Please,” patronized the alien. “Don’t be such a child. What good would that possibly do?”

Agreeing with his logic, Williams turned the weapon on the Atlantian and squeezed the trigger. The bullet shattered his new head, scattering yellow brain matter on the wall behind him. The doctor’s body fell lifelessly to the floor. And in the room behind him the egg-headed bodies fell as well, their heads imploding in upon themselves.

All across the colony, the transformed members of the expedition fell as the nurturing link between the mother and her children was severed. Unbeknownst to the Colonel, the Atlantian transformation is complete only when the very last child finds form in its host.

The Colonel fell to the floor. He lay semi-conscious in a sea of blood, sweat and grey matter. He slipped into sleep. He will awake again. But not today.

He flipped a switch on the comm panel. It was time for his daily mission log. He was too far from home to speak with command, and the ship he abandoned was no longer answering his calls. He assumed the worst.

“This is Captain Caesar Winsome of the starship Copernicus. It is earth day ninety of my journey out of the Una System. I have nothing of significance to report. Radiation levels remain constant and present no danger to my person or the operation of this craft. Propulsion is functioning at maximum efficiency, and fuel rods are secure. Life support is steady. Food stores are sufficient, as is my supply of water. Regardless, I continue to ration my supplies, not knowing how long it’s gonna be before I find a way out of this—”

He hit the pause button, feeling the rising frustration of his isolation. Recording flight logs was an important discipline for any pilot in his situation. Caesar knew this, but it did not make his situation any easier. He had not heard the sound of another human voice since shortly after departing the damaged Copernicus, a trans-galaxy hibernation ship moving personnel between the two earth colonies in the Beta Quadrant. The Copernicus was now adrift in the Kalandra Sector with failing life support and limited supplies, and Caesar knew his crew’s chances of survival were slim. Their radio silence confirmed his fears—his departure to find help was in vain. There was no one out here to help him. And even if he should find someone, would there be anyone left on his ship to help? Feeling the despair of empty space, he slipped once more into a deep sleep, hoping to dream of hope, of home, of the woman he left behind.

Gloria Winsome sat alone in the cold hallway of City General. The vinyl cushions stole the warmth from her thighs. She pulled her sweater tighter to stave off the draft. Her ankles felt cold. She glanced out the window at the industrial complex that ravaged the city landscape of New Detroit. City General boasted the most advanced technology on the lower continent, but it lacked the basic amenities of the institutions back home, namely heat for the waiting rooms. She wondered how much longer it would be before something changed. Would she ever speak with her husband again? She needed to know that he was alright. She wanted to feel his warm embrace. She needed to know that he would come home again and share her bed. She longed to hear his voice. In the months following their wedding, they had shared so much about themselves—what made them smile, what they wanted to be when they grew old, what dreams bubbled inside their hearts and minds. She wanted a family with lots and lots of children. He wanted to become a pilot and travel the galaxy. They had such dreams—hopes, aspirations, and plans. Despite the cold and drafty hallway, she slipped into sleep. There she found a reprieve from her desperate circumstance.

Lunch time, thought Captain Winsome. He broke out the rations and set a small plastic plate on the console before him. Despite the choice to ration his food, he still made much of his small portion. His body didn’t need the calories. His lengthy confinement had caused his muscle tissue to atrophy. His body weight was now thirty-percent less than when he first left the Copernicus, now five months ago.

“Let’s see now. What do we have on the menu today?” he mused, knowing full well his choices were limited to three protein pastes.

He opened a silver tube and squeezed a six-inch portion of Bolean meat paste across his plate. Yummy, he thought, for the flavors were real, although the texture was lacking. And then he waited for the food paste to fully expand (space rations expand to quadruple their size when exposed to oxygen or water, although they are meant to be eaten quickly). Caesar watched the paste foam and bubble, pushing across the plastic plate like a slow-moving magma flow. He then feasted on the large expanse of food before him, stopping occasionally to play with his food, feeling a bit like a small child. In the vast expanse of space with so little hope and so much time and no one watching, it was a small pleasure that he gladly allowed himself.

Gloria returned to City General again the following day—the seventh trip in as many days. It was a Thursday. The green clouds of dust and smog, full of acid rain, continued to hang over the city. She rode the lift to the thirteenth floor, exiting again to the cold, drafty hallway she knew so well. And though she had been coming here every day for a week, it occurred to her just how much she hated hospitals. She registered at the nurses’ station, greeting the Nubian nurse that watched the morning shift. She then took her usual seat on the gold vinyl sofa at the end of the hallway where the ceiling-to-floor plate-glass windows revealed the harsh reality of the city below. Acid rain pelted the window as the clouds gave up their payload.

Gloria waited. The rain stopped. The lights flickered overhead. The crackle of the intercom broke the silence of her waiting.

“Mrs. Winsome to the nurses’ station, please. Mrs. Winsome,” spoke a thin voice through the speaker overhead.

She stood tall, pushing her long dark hair back behind her shoulders. She looked brave; she was not. She was greeted at the nurses’ station by Dr. Grossman, the attending physician for her husband in this facility.

“Good morning, Mrs. Winsome. So nice to see you. Are you ready for your visitation?”

“Yes, Doctor. Thank you. I came early hoping to—”

“Yes, of course. I am sorry about that. I was unaware you had arrived. We are busy, as you can imagine, and rules are rules.”

“I understand,” she replied.

“This way, please.”

The doctor scuttled down the hallway, his large frame rocking side to side. She followed along like a small dog on a leash, afraid to fall behind and lose sight of her guide. The doctor approached the observation room on the right, and then turned to speak.

“Here we are again. Take as much time as you want, but your visit should not exceed ninety minutes. I’ll send the nurse to you when it’s time.”

She nodded with appreciation, but found no words. She pushed through the doorway, closing the door softly behind her. The room was dimly lit. Against the wall to her left were two chairs and a tall stool; on the walls were paintings by local artists—pretty images of space travel and galaxies and nebulae. And in the middle of the room was a large sarcophagus-shaped container made of glass with wires and tubes running in and out, attached to bags and bottles and canisters and monitors. Inside lay her husband, Caesar.

Radiation levels had risen substantially over the last twenty-four hours. After six months continual operation, the fuel rods feeding the small impulse engine in Captain Winsome’s star cruiser were finally running low. The captain was now positioning his ship near the outer corona of a white dwarf star in hopes of regenerating his ship’s failing fuel rods. It was a delicate maneuver, difficult for even the most seasoned pilot. Too close or too long, the radiation could kill the pilot. Not close enough, not long enough, the refueling would fail. He fired his stabilizers on portside, and then on starboard. It was imperative to keep the sun behind him. If the ship turned suddenly to face the corona, he would be blinded in an instant and burned in a matter of moments. His ship was not designed to protect the pilot from solar radiation at close range. But Winsome knew the design of the engine compartment contained a radiation shield to protect the pilot from the radiation produced by the engine itself. Keeping the engine between him and the corona was his only hope of continuing his journey. The console alarm sounded. The refueling had begun. He touched Gloria’s photograph and thought of home. In less than ten hours Winsome’s ship would be fully fueled and he would be traveling once more at full speed across the great expanse. He smiled at the thought of home. There was hope.

Gloria sat on the stool next to Caesar in his life support tube, as she had every day since his accident, just fourteen days ago. Doctor Grossman hovered over a monitor in the corner, evaluating the peaks, valleys, and erratic squiggles that filled the endless tape gathering on the floor beneath a monitor. The doctor seemed pleased that Caesar’s vital signs were stable. He cautioned her against hope.

“These things take time,” he said, preoccupied with his reports. “It can take months or years. Some never recover. The brain is a tricky thing.”

“I know,” she replied.

“Alright, then. I’ll leave you two lovers alone,” he said as he scurried out the door.

She knew the doctor meant well. And she knew he was right, statistically speaking. But she wanted more than that. And she wanted it now. Closing her eyes and laying her cheek against the warm glass, she whispered a prayer—a call for help, for divine intervention, for a miracle.

“Food supplies are running low,” reported Caesar in his daily log. “I have cut my food rations to half. At my present rate of consumption, I expect my food supply to be gone within sixty days.”

It struck him odd at that particular moment that his six month supply of food and water had lasted more than eighteen months. How was that possible? Curiosity moved his mind to action. He reviewed his log entries, paying attention to the status reports concerning food supplies. He noticed nothing unusual, just a slow decline of supplies and the quick passage of time. Something didn’t sit right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He had been out here for a very long time. Speeding through the void with no destination, no purpose, just forward. Always forward. The rescue mission had now become a mission of survival. His thoughts returned to his Gloria back home. He felt the sting of loneliness, and wondered why he had ever left her. He placed the palms of his hands on the glass of the cockpit surrounding him and whispered a prayer. He felt a connection to his beloved. Tears filled his eyes as his voice gave rise to his pain.

“Gloria!” he cried out. “Oh, my Gloria! I am sorry… I want to come home… I just don’t know the way!”

His voice faltered, and he surrendered in tears to the warden of despair that ruled his captivity. And in that moment Caesar felt his heart pounding in his chest. And though he had never noticed it before, the distinct rhythm of his own heartbeat seemed to grow louder; it seemed to emanate from a place outside his own body. Could his lengthy isolation and physical decline be playing tricks on his mind? He had heard stories of pilots suffering from space dementia. He shook it off.

“Listen with your heart, my dearest,” Gloria whispered, “and you will find your guide. I believe in you.”

It was now week three since Caesar’s accident in flight training school. Gloria sat again on her stool at Caesar’s side. She sang in soft tones, her cheek still touching the glass.

“Come back to me, dearest one. Come back to me,” she sang. “Love is calling you home, my dear. My love is calling you home.”

The hum of the medical technology accompanied her sweet voice, a symphony of sounds unlike any in the universe. She stroked the glass of Caesar’s small prison. The words she sang were new, born of love and grief and pain—and above all else, hope.

“No greater thing can I offer you now, dear friend, no greater virtue could I possibly extend,” she sang. “Come home… come home…”

The words to her song gave way to beautiful tones—a wordless siren calling into the void. Rising and falling, her beautiful voice filled the room and wafted through the hallways, enchanting all that heard it. The nurses heard her song and stopped their chatter. Visitors and patients fell into a silent trance as they witnessed the undulation of Gloria’s melody and shared in the deep and undying love of her song. Tears filled their eyes, and they wept.

Captain Winsome feared many things on his long journey. Engine failure, radiation poisoning, meteor showers, hostile alien encounters, and any number of sicknesses related to space travel. But he feared nothing more than the loss of his sanity. His three-year journey across the expanse was now taking its toll upon his mental capacities. He was hearing things that he could not explain. And he was afraid.

He had questioned much of what he had been experiencing during the last several weeks. It began with the odd sound of a heartbeat, as if it were outside the ship, pounding in perfect rhythm with the sound of his own heart. And then he heard mechanical sounds that did not belong to the operation of his own spacecraft—beeps and bleeps and whirs and strange noises that didn’t belong, noises that emanated from a source outside the ship.

Today the noises were eclipsed by the sound of music—beautiful sounds, like the voices of angels standing in the presence of an all mighty God, voices clothed in majesty and glory. He was entranced. Caesar listened. He found comfort in the rise and fall of the melodious tones. He listened more intently. The music wove itself into his soul as it grew louder. He suddenly knew he was loved. He gave himself over to the ebb and flow of the musical current, closing his eyes and imagining the great love that pulsated at the very heart of the universe. He knew his journey was over. And though he grieved at the thought of never making it home to see his beloved Gloria, he knew that he could no longer continue this fruitless journey of mere survival. He lived, but he was not alive. He hummed along with the song the universe sang to him. He closed his eyes and a smile relaxed his tense expression. An unspeakable peace suddenly grasped his heart, and he knew it was time. He was loved, and it was enough.

As Captain Winsome gave into the eternal song of the universe, driven by love and captured by peace, the X-55 star cruiser that had been his constant companion for more than three years began to dissolve into soft pieces of fluid stardust. His body floated silently through the open space of the void. His ship dissipated into nothingness—the stuff of dreams—and was no more. Winsome’s body rose toward the bright light at the center of the galaxy, moving slowly at first and then speeding ever faster. His body was lost as his soul reached light speed and became one with the most elemental of energy—light itself. He was poised to discover the power of love at the very heart of the universe itself. He was complete.

Gloria’s hope sprang eternal. She finished her song and found rest for her troubled soul. Deep inside, she somehow knew that she had reached her husband, through some primal drumbeat, through some bond of the soul known only to a lover and his beloved. She had called to him, and he had answered. Not with words or thoughts, but with a power of trust and faith and hope and love. They had touched, and it was enough.

It was with a new peace that Gloria now gazed through the glass of her husband’s confinement. She saw a smile touch his face. He is at peace, she thought to herself, and was thankful. He had learned to let go. And now she would have to learn to do the same. It was then that his eyes began to move underneath his eyelids. Low alarms sounded as the monitors across the room began to register higher levels of brain activity. A thought of hope reached out and snatched Gloria’s breath away. Doctors and nurses flooded the room, attending to their machines. Gloria’s heartbeat quickened as she leaned in to see his face. And then it happened, there in that room, far away from the perils of empty space. Caesar Winsome awoke.

“To see or not to see”
echoes of the modern early at its rise
an age old curse
a companion to despise
to wrangle
to fight
to struggle
to lose one’s sight
Out, damn spot! Out!

These eyes so bright
Too young for such a malady
Colors burst
Shapes collide
Silhouettes are strong
No weakness there to hide
Glare
Reflection
Shades of brown
Weakness
Focus
Baskerville’s hound?

Dog days of summer gone
The hours rushing past
Winter’s twilight seems so long
Deep shadows they do cast
Gray tones
Sad tunes
Hip-hop, jazz or taps
The band will play
My eyes will fail
Will all be lost…
as death’s dark spot prevails?

© 2005 by Scot Lahaie

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Guns and Roses
Pansies and Pinks
Mindless people watch
Survivors? So they think!
Death
Violence
On TV
Buy this, buy that
The market drives it All

Roses are red
Violence is blue
You shoot me
I shoot you
Dope
Soap
We cope
The best we can
Our hope is in the Man

Earn a buck
Spend a bill
Change your mind
Take it back? At your Will!
Buy
Spend
Exchange, expend
There is no limit
The credit card is God

Our values lost?
A moral nation?
Is there no end?
An evil contagion!
Watchers
Doers
Suckers, stinkers
We’ve all gone mad!
The new reality… all on TV

© 2005 by Scot Lahaie

I was younger
but not so old
it’s really such a blur
Quoting text
and making jest
emotions I must stir

“Out damn spot!”
and “Goodnight sweet Prince”
and other words like these.
I speak them loudly
I speak them gently
I say them all to please.

For in this dream
at twilight’s seam
my mind’s all a-twitter
I remember things
that never happened
and slowly grow so bitter.

© 2008 by Scot Lahaie

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He-s and she-s just like me,
perhaps,
with great responsibilities.
For with their words, which are many,
they mold and shape our thoughts, though few,
mindless folk without a clue.

De-centered,
De-constructed,
there to find and to discover
lost readings of my past.
My childhood called to task?

Winnie the Pooh is not my friend
and Scooby Doo becomes suspect.
For de-centered and de-constructed
these names derive from feces, so I am told.
Winnie the Poop and
Scooby Doo Doo is what we get.
Are these really their theses?

Authors dead or lay dying.
Cannons rebuked, and cannons fired.
Readers’ response is all the rage.
Why write a work, a poem, or play?
Chaos rules! Relativity reigns!
Hopeless children still are crying.

Nothing sacred? No holds barred?
What have we gained?
What have we lost?
Do the margins hold?
Who have we pissed off?

The arts enlighten, stories brighten.
But not today.
Spirit lost.
The lab forsaken.
Lost our minds? Lost our way?
Shame! Sham? Shaman.

© 2002 by Scot Lahaie

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