detest the fodder
of looking like some of us—
Martian zookeepers in Roman togas,
Marlon Brando wannabes,
three-eyed, three-armed invaders
who plot over bad coffee in
out-of-the way diners.

Irritated aliens
whine about reruns,
tired jokes like
did you hear the one 
about the two-headed Martian 
who walks into a dump full of barflies
then flutters its jerry-rigged-antennas
to turn actor grit into slapstick? 
And it doesn’t make it any better 
when they’re joined
by twin-boy Venusians
who shimmy in with pencil
mustaches and crotchety
voices of grown men.

But what really ticks them off
are swollen Kanamit craniums
of cookbook authors
(we probably taste like chicken)
and those turtle-necked, 
slick-suited, white-gloved
no-mouths, who get
played by a blues-harped 
blowhard from Pitchville. 

Aggrieved aliens believe
we should own up to our
what-any-other-looks-like.  
Therein lies
our humanoid’s tale, 
inflatable, 
deflatable, 
and viscid at best.