We take our haphazard selves and run

Two-legged and mammalian, helpless babies, hard-of-smelling,
mouths foaming over with poor pieces of communicate
who knew such a creature would end up lording over
creating and destroying with gilded impetuosity
endless microcosms macrocosms silk-line corded
to that blue sphere spinning slowly on its axis tilted cross-ways
unsuspecting, the protozoa…unsuspecting, the bats and the bugs
it is the one organ, made trouble for everybody
buttery-rich with neuron trillions
soaking cock-eyed in speech’s muddy waters
they were biologically kindled to ask stupid questions
orakangaroo, yesakangaroo – i’d make a loverly kangaroo

But yet they clamp white-knuckled, with a tenacity appalling
to the labels the categories the simplifications
defending elephantine-like their haphazard identities
egos shrouded in tissue gauze bubble-wrap layered thickly
each one’s little life their own full-blown eternity
unable to see past Death’s personalized sickle sweep

So they rule foolishly, angrily, irritatedly
fancy themselves celestial sultans, wisest gods
ignoring utterly the worlds-within-worlds possibility
the notion that our vision is myopic, slice-specific
and the knowledge, pan-childranic, that Horton heard his Who
the tiny world, for instance, in the crescent of a fingernail
their own spinning blue sphere housed, of all spots, within
a colossal pacifier in space, a teething nipple hastily plugged
into a baby giant’s mouth (his mama needing peace and quiet)
whence upon the unplugging, their sphere winkles out.

~ by kingzoko on July 29, 2012.

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