The New Boy 2


You may find at the market a casual comment swerves into 
conversation that’s deeply metaphysical with a young man by 

He wears a white T and jeans, ordinary yet careful about his food.

“Every time I meditate, I begin in space among the stars,” he says.

“Many of these beings,” he continues, “are not physically 3-D, so it’s frustrating to describe them.”

“I have the impression their silver color comes from within.”

“They look at me with tremendous love from almond-shaped eyes.”

“There’s no sunlight. The whole cloud structure is luminous and the ground crystalline.”

“A lot of purple and blue, like twilight.”

It’s a complex, partly inarticulate narrative, perhaps because he feels I won’t believe him, yet he’s spontaneous.

I don’t need to question the reality of his story.

He’s sincere.


There’s more energy now as heat, connectivity, radio waves, data, X-rays, and all kinds of interactions.

We operate with higher electrical current inside, which can 
rejuvenate you physically by the nature of connectivity, moving 
freely around the body.

The next week, smiling, mid-sentence, “seeing Earth from deep space, blue and alive.”

More often now, ETs are discussed at the co-op, also, coincidence, spirit molecules, time tunnels, and quanta uncertainty, since we’re close to The Institute.

I like that he expresses himself to me as a kind of witness in transition.

He’s read my work, and thinks me more knowledgeable than I am, since my poems aren’t true.

“Pleiadians create new visuals through which I can imagine,” he says.

My care is required for witness to resonate energetically with listener, however nonchalant I appear.

The more compassion one has for non-normal experiences of others, the sooner consciousness will shift toward the stars.

To him, this means shifting the ethical structure of communicating a narrative.

“I think of myself in a service capacity.”


“One silvery insect was seven feet tall; I shook his claw and we 

“Sometimes reptiles hoard crystals to send and receive information.”

“They can space-travel versions of themselves here, as snakes.”

“Lipids in a membrane behave like that, channeling the atmosphere.”

At home I write, “The membrane is like a liquid crystal to the sky.”

Next week, in line, he’s with a beautiful woman with a worn face who knows me.

She’s not well, and she wants me to visit them and their animals.

“They know they don’t end when they die,” she says; “It’s sad they’re leaving, but it’s voluntary.”

“They’ve relatives on other planets, sentient beings with the right to vote.”

“Have you ever watched an animal and suddenly it disappears?” he chips in.

Witness involves a significance equivalent to truth.

“The whole idea of visiting another planet, communicating with a being from another world, to me that’s spiritual.”


“When they speak, they subtly vary certain sounds; I hear words, but their sound carries different meaning to my body.”

“Some words I read weren’t there when I began.”

“Use these new words, enhanced by your imagining, to allow our 
dimension to emerge.”

“Imagination stabilizes the shift.”

In Santa Fe, in Tucson, Lima, La Paz, people see extraterrestrials.

When I step outside, a velvety multitude of moths and insects, 
transparencies, on my screen door whirls up to the porch light.

Milky Way shines 3-D with white clottings and dark rifts, covering the ground and trees with phosphorescence.

Comets, asteroids from deep space, planets moving at will, contribute 
to this glamour of wonder.

He shows me how to pull frequency, starlight, down through his body into the ground, and I try it; I’m more open now.

I can carry more light, which fuses with similar energies in mass 

Earth will radiate this consciousness as a star or sun on horizons of his other worlds.

“Let us hold that portal open for you, in the form of your little crush on him, of light streaming down, and feel a surrounding new ideal,” they say to me.

“Now, imagine yourself in the Pleiades.”

“You wish to give a present to the source, like compassion or rainwater 
from home.”

Early on, I divined that this book already exists in the future.

After all, I’d thought of it; it’s a probability, somewhere, complete, on a shelf.

My intention is to seek that future edition and consult it to create this one, the original, for you.
More Poems by Mei-mei Berssenbrugge