The apparitional psychology
of solitaries, like a particle,
accelerator, stills the willing wilds
so that the miniscule but extent stands
out in the sharpest of reliefs, as
monkishly apparent as a ghost,
red-flagged among the primate gestural
vocabularies filling other cracks
in their collection of stalactites: we
are just too autonomic day to day
to pass unnoticed, live in hidden heights,
experience emotions they don’t have
which don’t have names. We praise an Inner Sun
& are not isolated humanoids.
We sequence emanations that
they do not even know are possible!
among their cubicles & mortgages.
We flourish carefully, refining our
proportions, watch The World with wide bright eyes.
I can feel recalibration coming
like a burning plastic bottle, thrumming
somewhere in their building, building up
to something, overspilling up a cup.
I feel crescendo in their willing distance,
putting up a token of resistance,
jutting out into abyss, down!-going
down! down! down! the rapids of their rowing.
To shape my ape up to the finish line
I planned & tweaked, came up with a design
which broke the norms of my society
in all alertness & sobriety
of purpose, conscious of the full support
of something greater, grander than my access port,
my terminal & lightning rod on legs
which has no purpose but to lay its eggs.
What norms, you ask? Oh, just the usual ones:
no fossil fuel use & no hot cross buns;
no buns on seats all day at any price!
& rather than their fast food, oats & rice.
More norms: no birthday / parties, little drink.
I find that both just jam the way I think.
I believe it is our birthright to be glad,
astride an ape between the hebdomad,
a way out of the wailing wall of souls,
becoming, being more than great ape roles.
