What I Assume

Walking

A human has two opposable thumbs,
is compelled by lightning and rainclouds that storm upon his brains
as on the plains on Venus.
With these man makes endless imitations.

His two legs that walk or run him
like a bicycle's wheels
are easily mis-balanced when slowed
If he steps toe to heel, if lungs dilate
he'll fear falling over
if he adjusts his pace, the placement of weight
mind and body bend to be a tuned kaironmeter
the tunnels in his head, a breathing triad:
in, out, stop
each phase qualified equal.

Then may he finally see the brown dirt path,
with weeds thereby dusted,
green stems arrayed upwards,
gray bark with blackened cracks
from a burn a dozen summers ago,
finally see the first bud, smooth like plasticine,
a new leaf, all things observable,
as Man, once again, becomes a mirror
containing everything and nothing.

So may he shrink, the dilatory respirate
until breathing, time, and nature again gain
touch, taste, smell, form; recede to the original.
Or else are released and forgotten
in favor of the easy imitations that we can control.

Just Before Lunch

On a fresh wet and west-fallen limb
a blue-gray bird the true size of my heart holds and bobs on one leg
eyes blinking like a boat in the night, black to white
her friend has landed in the stream,
splashed out to a patch of bright green moss
he picked a water fly then fluttered behind the waterfall's white insistence.

Minutes out of sight I worry for the absent friend, but
the blue-gray bird still
holds on one leg, bobs
and flashes bugs his black fantastic eyes.

Forms of Things Known

A human has two opposable thumbs,
is compelled by lightning and rainclouds that storm upon his brains
as on the plains on Venus.
With these man makes endless imitations.

His two legs that walk or run him
like a bicycle's wheels
are easily mis-balanced when slowed
If he steps toe to heel, if lungs dilate
he'll fear falling over
if he adjusts his pace, the placement of weight
mind and body bend to be a tuned kaironmeter
the tunnels in his head, a breathing triad:
in, out, stop
each phase qualified equal.

Then may he finally see the brown dirt path,
with weeds thereby dusted,
green stems arrayed upwards,
gray bark with blackened cracks
from a burn a dozen summers ago,
finally see the first bud, smooth like plasticine,
a new leaf, all things observable,
as Man, once again, becomes a mirror
containing everything and nothing.

So may he shrink, the dilatory respirate
until breathing, time, and nature again gain
touch, taste, smell, form; recede to the original.
Or else are released and forgotten in favor
of easy imitations we control.

I’m wrestling with the title, which is not meant to be Dada-istic, but substitutes for the meaning of some lines that just did not fit.

Grandpa Apoplectic (with Nature's Disrespect)

I will not take a walk across the park this morning.

Last night at eleven the mountains' snow-crowned peaks
high above the valley
hovered, enthroned like kingly phantasms
below and above a nebulous ocean.
Their sergeant moon inspected midnight's soldiers
with clarity of voiceless commands
proving the air's transparency.

By seven a.m. the sun has spread
enlarged by a dusty miasma,
puffed up and enforced by the desert.
Our valley cups and holds the haze up
mum to the inverted mountains
a dark massif with hidden feet
treading the creamed-coffee murk.

The invaded citizens concede, It is not smog,
it is not smoke (despite this cough) it
could be worse.

If I look away from the obscuring curtain
I can spot the sun's disc from the corner of my eye
a pasted on and pompous star,
it retreats behind a mountain as I rev my rebel motor for the canyon;
a true mercenary.