Homo Aliensis

The 1950 Ford came to an abrupt stop
Out in a roadless area of the Flint Hills of Kansas,
The driver barely conscious,
Having overindulged in Valium and Ripple Wine,
His head sunk against the old steering wheel,
The harmonious horn honking and honking,
Honking him back to realtime Kansas,
“Thanks a lot,” he thought, “Better off dead,”
He got out and fell down,
Then steadied himself on the doorpost,
He reached back in to grab the Pagan Pink Ripple,
Punching in the eight track tape,
Then falling backwards onto the Big Bluestem prairie grass,
Taking a pull, he scratched his head,
Noticing the silvery grey boulder,
The one that had stopped his forward progress,
The one that was now smoking from the anti-freeze
Leaking from the busted radiator,
He drunkenly sang along with the tape:
“I’m a melancholy man, doin’ what I can,
All the world astounds me and my ass is on the ground,”
Laughing as he changed the lyrics to fit his predicament,
Grabbing his American flag sleeping bag off the back seat,
Flopping it down and propping himself up against the rock
Before passing out,
The green shaft of light appeared as a sunshaft,
It sought him out, bathing him in light,
He awoke and tasted the manna,
Sobered up and stood up,
His car fixed, the engine running perfectly,
The eight track playing:
“A beam of light will fill your head,
And you’ll remember what’s been said.”