Aliens enter the Earth's atmosphere in saucers that zig and zag like lateral thoughts. Aliens enter the mind in mid-day, in dreams that don't know their place. Aliens enter the sky in the early morning as extra moons. Aliens enter the heart at night when anyone sees a star.

Aliens enter drug stores in disguise to pick up pulp magazines, knowing that every cover of Astounding is a post card love letter, and every story secretly screaming, "Wish you were here."

Aliens enter corn fields to find the finest ear of corn, but they're picky, and walk in circles while they eat.

Aliens burn to enter our women. Our women want aliens. Only we can stand in the way, and the problem is, we want women and aliens too. And sometimes each other.

Aliens enter the body through the eyes, their slender shimmering shapes seducing us. Aliens enter the body through the water, in disparate, fluoridated plasma forms. Aliens enter the body when we bump up against the Negroes who now sit next to us in our schools, and may not be human anyway. Aliens enter the body through the mouth, in the crops they picked. Aliens enter the body through the ears, in high pitched sounds that only the lonely can hear. Aliens enter the body through the ass, their probes producing pleasures forbidden to man. Aliens enter the body through the nose, or else why do you remember her scent so painfully, when you chose to marry someone else? Aliens enter the body through the womb, and stay there for nine long and loving months. Aliens enter the body through the vagina, where they are at home. Aliens enter the body through the bend in the elbow, which you shouldn't have let her bite. Aliens enter the body through the weakness in the shoulder and the ache in the back. Please god, let it be aliens and not age. Aliens enter the body through the nape of the neck. Oh wait. That's sin, or vampires, I forget which. Aliens enter the body through the thighs, where they deposit cellulite, and the scalp, where they harvest hair. Aliens enter the body through the hokey pokey, and they shake it all about. Aliens enter the body through Ray Bradbury, who taught them they could create bones inside of us. Aliens enter the body through Greg Bear, but then the aliens are us. Aliens enter the body through Spider Robinson, and it's a good fuck. Aliens enter the body through Harlan Ellison, and it's an angry fuck. Sometimes aliens enter the body through no fault of their own, because they hunger for human touch, and who could blame them?

Aliens enter our lives to invite us to join grand galactic federations. Sometimes we join.

Aliens enter the economy through new gadgets that were created somewhere else, and don't feel quite heavy enough in the hand. Aliens enter the economy through of new currency, which doesn't quite look like real money. Aliens enter the economy to shoulder out hard-working Americans. Aliens enter the economy in drag, waiting on street corners to steal our precious bodily fluids. Aliens enter the economy via the pronouncements of Alan Greenspan, who's been dead for almost seventeen years. Watch him walk. You'll see

Aliens enter our lives to judge us. As if we didn't do enough of that already.

Aliens enter the rooms of boys late at night, and strap lenses on their wrists. Aliens enter the rooms of men late at night, and swap the lenses for keys to whatever the latest dream substitute is. Aliens enter the rooms of men in city parks, and suck them tenderly in the bathroom stalls. Aliens enter the rooms of old men who shouldn't be so alone, and hold the other halves of the conversations due them. Aliens enter the rooms of executives around the world, and offer them deals. Such deals.

Aliens enter our lives to be taken to our leader, and laugh when we show them W. Good joke, they say. Now take us to your leader.

Aliens enter world history in the form of angels, painted on ancient stones. Aliens enter world history in the form of gods, painted in ancient stories. Aliens enter world history in the form of plants, smoked, snipped, and swallowed. Aliens enter world history in the body of Jesus, Buddha, Hitler, Newton, Einstein, Lenin, Mao, Elvis, John Lennon, Jimi Hendrix, Van Gogh, Picasso, Beethoven, Jacob Lawrence, Shakespeare, Michael Jordan, Dennis Rodman (a gimme, no?), Madonna, Marilyn, Janice. They must be aliens, or else the rest of us would explode with the shame of sin, and the envy of unfulfilled potential. Aliens must exist, or else we die.

Aliens enter our lives to save us, because somebody must, and Heinlein is dead.

Aliens enter the arts because they like Reader's Digest, especially Campus Comedy. Aliens enter the arts at summer camp, because they are the only ones who can make those damn leather wallets look good. On Altair V, such wallets fetch a fortune. Aliens enter the arts with better movies than you can imagine, only they're all on beta, so nobody sees them. Aliens enter the arts through David Hartwell's wardrobe. Aliens enter the arts to get free passes to Zoolander and Charlie's Angels, which they loved, and because they want to study acting with Robert Duvall. Aliens were going to take over the country music industry, but they were stopped by the Man in Black. Who knows what will happen now? It could be the end of Nashville as we know it. John W. Campbell wishes that aliens entered the arts by writing for him, but alas, thus far aliens have only written for The New Yorker, and maybe Penthouse. No one's sure there, not even the aliens. Aliens try to enter the arts through Girls Gone Wild, but alien titty is too much even for a frat boy. Aliens entered the arts through the mind of Philip K. Dick, because not even a science fiction writer could make that shit up.

Aliens enter our dreams and make us ache to fly, even when we blow up.

Aliens enter the rooms of girls and give their dreams of horses solidity. Aliens enter the rooms of girls and mold their fountainous lusts into somethings that won't scare men so badly. Aliens enter the rooms of teenaged girls to learn make-up tips, because, come on, who better? And these days, the girls only give them if the aliens trade for knowledge of the stars. They seem to find it a fair trade. Aliens enter the rooms of young wives, asleep in frustration with hasty cum drying on their thighs, and gently stroke them until they shudder, and everything is better. For a while. Aliens enter the rooms of mothers, and stroke their temples, to give them five minutes for themselves, just five blessed minutes. Aliens enter the rooms of divorced women, starting over in autumn, to make them burn with a hunger that is an accusation in itself. Aliens enter the mailboxes of old women, where they gently place the cards their grandchildren forgot to mail.

Aliens enter the state of Florida, to watch us hurl ourselves towards the sky. They cheer louder than anyone when we succeed, because they are lonely. But they don't cry quite so loudly when we burn, because hey, it's not their loved ones ascending to heaven.

Aliens cross the sky in silver phallic symbols, in round womb symbols, in fractal cloud shapes, in groups and solo. Aliens go down stairs, alone and in pairs, but always just out of sight. Aliens ride in the next subway car. Aliens drive slow in the fast lane. Aliens drive alone in the commuter lane. Aliens tailgate. Aliens run the DMV, and take those damn pictures solely for their own amusement.

Aliens enter women's purses just before men look in them, and insert all sorts of mysterious shit.

Aliens enter bars like the Draco and order drinks that men wish they could drink. Aliens enter stores and trade according to Andre Norton's rules. Aliens enter hospitals, and are disappointed to find General Hospital, not Sector General. Aliens enter Writers of the Future, but only earn honorable mentions. Aliens enter churches, to get James Blish to explain things to them. Aliens enter dojos, to spar with Stephen Barnes. Aliens enter military bases, to test Pournelle's honor. Aliens sometimes enter cons, but find them tiring. Aliens would enter British politics, but China's works have convinced them things are too damn strange there. Aliens enter comic book stores, mostly out of vanity, to see how the likenesses are, but sometimes to pick up the latest Gaiman and Ellis. Aliens enter the world guided by the Hitchhiker's Guide, and nod sagely, saying, "Mostly accurate." Aliens enter the afterworld guided by Garth Nix, but they don't come back.

Aliens entered the world in the form of tiny spores, which fell on fecund Earth oh so long ago. Most died, but some lived, and grew into us.

But mostly, mostly, mostly- mostly aliens enter us through a mix of impatience and love. They enter us through silence, the silence that we hear in response to Voyager, the silence SETI hears, the silence Hubble sees. We send them satellites and longing and old episodes of I Love Lucy. We send them the ashes of our respected dead. We send them trash and filth and love and bravery. We send them the living and the dead, hope and despair, prayers and curses. We send them fucking human sacrifice and call it Challenger. And they enter us with an aching, transcendent silent. C'mon, you bastards! We're ready! Are we just talking to ourselves here?

So I say, goddamn. It's time for aliens to enter the conversation. Or you know what? We'll come up there and give you something to talk about.

The End

Bio