Like 2001 A Space Odyssey, we just keep running into these monoliths. The latest is not in Keir Dullea’s bedroom, nor have the Chinese found it on their latest Moon landing. It’s not running circles around Titan and Jupiter.
Like Davy Crockett, they seem to be born on a mountain top, though not necessarily in Tennessee, or have they looked at Cumberland Gap yet?
No, this one has suddenly appeared on Pine Mountain, a molehill in California.
These monoliths must have a monorail system giving them a tour of the highest mountaintops where they can bask in the sunlight for a few short days.
Yes, the monoliths live; they are the monoliths. They feel, they watch sunset glow. They reflect something peculiar. Could they be totems to ward off the corona virus?
Scarce heard amid the vandals below, they are the monos. Short days ago there were others, but now they lie in the field, felled by pushy monkeys. They keep showing up at the darndest places with a shine and now a stainless steely grit.
The aliens appear to be working out the kinks. Alas, vandals may have more kinks than creatures from another dimension. We hear the Gregorian Chants.
The Monoliths seem to cry out: “We are the monuments to your folly.” They are testimony to the age of viagra.
What are the odds this one bites the dust before the weekend? The money is on the monkey.