Weekly feature by: Holly Day

We invite the government to read
our minds, the aliens to beam
new instructions with jagged
fingernails and broken glass

Give us a purpose! we shout
into the night sky, praying that
at least one cruise vessel bent
on world domination is heading

for Earth. We want to make wallets!
we plead, eyes on the stars in
supplication, heads matted
with drying blood, fingernails

ripping at our tin-foil hats and flinging
them into the air. One of the tiny moving
pinpricks of white above us must be
an alien spacecraft, aiming subliminal

messages into our prefrontal cortexes—we dig
into our scalps with the hope of making
mind control that much easier for our oppressors
the communications satellites circling overhead,
our hands outstretched, cracked and broken.


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