“The more you learn about the dignity of the gorilla, the more you want to avoid people.” – Dian Fossey
Shalom salaam shanti.
Digging deeper and deeper, primate just want sto give birth.
Breathe, pay attention, push as decades ago down the coast
pulling a slick Jeff Airplane babe into the world back of a flatbed
later on coaching out the same, your own firstborn in Pt. Reyes.
My wits become jumbled as the snack food.
Yummy gummy worms among mixed pyschonauts
couch-potato, yam sandwiched, Camembert too close for comfort
among grandmotherly raisins, prudish dates, maidenhead figs.
Dali biomorph gorp roasts snails and marshmallows
in a choir of pale Camp Fire Girls and Bluebird sopranos.
Robin redbreasts lay M&M eggs that singe my cortex
sing in my skull, don’t melt in my mouth.
A rope-a-doped empty soda can can’t bring order from chaos.
Instead I slake thirst
with reverse-engineered flavor-enhanced honeydew smartwater.
After sixty-odd years knocking at the door
more than half as husband and father
now not quite porpoise
the answer is constant birth.
I am a sunflower spurt open, bundled as laundry
handed over to Labor and Delivery.
My cranium is a nightingale heavy with young
a watermelon hatched in a wheelbarrow
bathed in an amnion of hummingbird dippers.
My cerebrum is a sponge crammed
in a pineapple crate inside a uterus on a Harley.
Wordsworth says, The child is father of the man.
Too much is happening: Puer Eternis aches to nest.
Push, push, deeper and deeper.
You must give birth.
An insurgent scouting the unknown, gleeful gravitas demented
this pleiotropic quest, sprouted wings, merged sacrament with play
renunciation with excess, never sure what’s next, what to expect
how the mélange’ll unfold — then stirred.
A wasted day of emotional slither?
What if I open the floodgates and there’s no flood?
I don translucent eyeshades
go deeper much deeper inside
allow out out, let in in.
From pygmy forest nowheres, journey comrades arise.
Electric geckos slipslide buttery dendrites.
Thumbsized shortstops seduce butterfly axons.
Tarantulas summersault winterpepper synapses
catch in-field rye under cobweb trapdoors where king cobras
clench screams of near enemy yolk hunting for its teeth.
Holden, now that J.D.’s dead, will I grow up phony?
How do we know when we’re done making love?