Member Poem

No Need To Go Home, You Bring It With You

Spreading, ink blotty,

into the galactic arm,

changing as needed

or fancied, everything drifts,

the walk, the talk,

what you pack into your cells,

what you need to breathe,

till the Talking Faces don't know what,

even more than they never did.

But what the fuck,

I'm a xenolinguist,:

we only care about real aliens

(which we've still never met);

gene-drifted post-humans

are just like the pre-galactics,

who lived & died, stuck on Planet Dirt.

My buds went full methane head,

Jovian diving, looking for

a million floating cities,

some sought deep-space sailors,

suited & suitless,

creeping helium, boiling lead,

und so weiter,

but found nobody home,

nobody BEEN home, dig?

Our ancestors killed off

their hominid cousins,

and no one else crawled out

of the collective unconscious anywhere.

We've looked--genus Homo is IT.

And, monkey with the cerebrum as you will,

but the brain-stems haven't changed,

(oh, we could, we did,

but the uniformly brutal ends of

countless colonies of reversionists

proved we can't civilize our inner lizards)

we are ourselves, whatever the suit,

the tongue, milieu, or place,

ringing changes on a tongue flick

primal stream of the eternal snarling now