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Soft Clay (I Am the Alien).

Ambiguity: rich soil,
fertile
for projections, soft clay
for fidgety, subliminal digits
to mold
in one’s own image.

Flood or deprive
the system. Confuse
the receivers. Make your world,
this whole phenomenal
experience, a fun-house hall
of mirrors.

Warped and limited
self-awareness. Self-image
malformed, grotesque.

Hallucinatory externalizations
or extra-planetary contacts?
Past life memories
or false memories?

In my honesty,
commitment to sincerity,
at least
when it comes to communicating
with me, myself,
I accept, humbly, my immortal
uncertainty.

Confused, lost
for, in
eternity.

They are,
I am
blind to me.

I am the ugly duckling
in a world without geese,
the fish out of water, square peg
in a world pockmarked
with round holes.

I am the alien,
no matter the skin.
Without a place,
lost to myself

without a home,
without, within,

I am the alien.

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3 responses to “Soft Clay (I Am the Alien).

  1. Aren’t we al aliens each of us from a different planet of the same name: ‘Me’?
    I love the poem, especially this: for fidgety, subliminal digits
    to mold.
    and this: in one’s own image/I am the ugly duckling/in a world without geese

  2. That went a bit wrong, but I expect you get my drift.

    • binjimin

      I believe I do. And we are all aliens in a sense — unique within and ultimately foreign to our surroundings — and, at least in that particular sense, seemingly bound in our mutual distinction from one another. But I do think I get your drift. And thanks for the insight. 🙂

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