Everything used to be a normal amount of interesting, 

just average levels of interesting to carry us through 

the days and years. Now it’s like the sound when  

I pop my ears, like plastic crackling. Now I  

hear that plastic crackle everywhere, all the time. 

There’s plastic in the ocean, they say, in all the  

deepest parts, the most private and intimate parts, 

in the stomachs of the creatures who might as well  

be aliens, they’re so far away from the surface,  

and the sound in my ears when I pop them  

tells me there’s plastic in me, too, in my  

deepest parts, in my stomach, which might be  

its own alien within me for all I know.  

Just living in this world is a radical act, they say,  

an act of hope that the future will be better  

than the present or the past. Maybe my alien  

will appreciate that future, might just step  

outside of me to enjoy it, to hear that 

fantastic plastic crackle reflected  

in the world outside and find itself home.