Most mornings I awake on an alien world alive with incomprehensible beings going about hieroglyphic tasks. The common language seems to revolve around the value of things and people but the currency is paper and metal. I walk this bizarre landscape in search of things that, though basic and ubiquitous on my native planet, are rare, or at least hard to find, on this skewed world: Water, food, friendship, meaning. Beyond the few inhabitants that I've managed to form a hard-won bond with I am treated as a leper and an object of scorn and suspicion, a catalyst for averted eyes and the resetting of car-alarms, a danger to children and small animals. I sit and weep and passers-by pass by without a word. I've been denied water, change for a dollar, credibility, humanity and a light for my cigarrette. I am haunted and occasionally roughed-up by this planets "peace-officers" and assigned an ambiguous number by it's courts-of-law. I've been spit on. I've been awakened at 3:00 in the morning and told to move on. I've been slapped. I've been insulted. I've been criticised by lesser men than myself.
Still, I must remain a human-being despite the alien creatures that surround me, I have little else to hold too at this time in my life. So I write poetry instead of cultivating resentments. I paint word-pictures to overlay the sometimes horrible realities that surround me. In a world that seems intent upon breaking my heart and my resolve I find little other recourse but to give back Mayflies and thick, black intoxicating dirt and horizons as sharp as razors that dip into the sea and come back up incredibly dry. Hell, aliens need love too.