SWAG (Sophisticated Wild-Ass Guess)

So what's the skinny on these little grey guys?
Are they really leprechauns in disguise?
Extraterrestrial saucer folk
or some guy's idea of a bad joke?

Are they time sliders flyin' in hyperdrive?
Insectoid workers from an outer space hive?
Or hallucinations from some brain lesion
that don't speak English, French, or Frisian?

Are they interstellar space invaders?
Or golems in spandex and hip waders?
Are they fairies, sprites, trolls, or elves
who wear lamé leotards off the shelves?

And what's their intergalactic mission,
if not to nab us when we're fishin'?
Are they the tailors who stitched our genes,
or some kinda flesh-and-blood machines?

And, if flesh-and-blood, then how the heck
do they walk through walls so circumspect?
Are they ghosts, phantoms, or holograms?
How much do they weigh, in kilograms?

Are they angels of mercy minus the wings,
or demons doing dastardly deeds and things?
Are they silent succubi flying in saucers,
ancient incubi, or pencil-neck tossers?

Are they pasty-faced computer geeks
who've stayed indoors for weeks and weeks,
or ninety-pound weaklings who never enrolled
in weight training or Judo or even bowled?

How much RAM do their crania contain
with no slots for follicles, such a big brain?
How do they carry such melons at all
with such skinny necks and muscles so small?

How did they get here, and how procreate
with no navels or genitals or hips to gyrate?
Do they have normal humanoid relations
or android conniptions, sympathetic vibrations?

Who would hazard a SWAG with these scalawags?
They've got no ID, SIN, VISA or vehicle tags.
They ain't from Kansas, Oz, or Timbuktu.
What's a peace officer here supposed to do?

They refuse to land on the White House lawn.
We can't kick their tires. They string us along.
Worm through wormholes, then disappear,
yet keep comin' back, year after year.

They hypnotize and stare at us with mantis eyes,
levitate, read our minds, de- and re-materialize;
are telepathic, control traffic, capable of many things
that make us dance like puppets on their strings.

With such quirks and dumb shows in the works,
the way each string sometimes sways, sometimes jerks,
you gotta wonder if God is just a virus too
an alien implant: inoculation for me and you.

Not a greybeard controlling wheels and levers,
anthropomorphic WASP or eager beaver,
but a great deep black hole of an oversoul
toward which we're moving by remote control.

Originally from Victoria, B.C., Richard Stevenson lives in Lethbridge, Alberta and teaches at Lethbridge Community College. Ekstasis Editions in Victoria will be releasing his 11th book, "Nothing Definite Yeti" (YA verse) this fall, and Thistledown Press in Saskatoon will be releasing his 12th, "Live Evil: The Miles Davis Poems", with a CD of jazz & poetry performances from his jazz-poetry troupe Naked Ear in the spring.

Meanwhile, he hopes these YA poems will appeal to the child in all of us, and give you a snicker or two. Any comments you have would be gratefully received.

Find more by Richard Stevenson in the Author Index.

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