StarPoet Newsletter Vol. XII, No. XIX

Man is the animal whose eyeballs are white,
Who stands bipedally, tailless and upright,
Whose flesh is lightly haired and pendalously breasted,
Whose teeth are small, whose brain is large,
Whose estrus is constant, whose body is willing,
Whose mind can do calculus inside her head
And turn dreams into starships and write poetry like this.

I would not die of old age,
But it's preferable
To the available alternatives;
If I had my druthers,
I'd druther be alive,
Writing poetry,
Keeping up with science,
Waking beside Sharon
Each morning
Until we discover
We are not alone
And the little green men
Come a visiting.

Please unniche me let me go,
For I an not your piece of meat,
You cannot grade me or specify me,
Or label the quality of my cut and humanity,
I am not your favorite childhood toy
To take apart inside your playroom.

Go home, go back to your university,
We who are living in the world defy your
Efforts to catalogue us or unify us,
Or make us a number in your paper,
We are not your precious lab description
Or some proof of intellectual principle.

My multi-ethnic heritage,
My genes, my blood lines, my many nations,
Cannot be resolved into some easy, catchy label,
Or a cultural political cause du jour
To solicit some new government grant
and rally your pseudo-revolutionary disciples.

Life is a struggle between world and thought;
In this gentle light of late afternoon
The temptation is still to stay inside
These walls that house the poet invisible,
This olive skinned skull,
These few pounds of sweet breads,
The quick neurons and oddly wired synapses
That defy the growing darkness;
The tempting piece of idea and creation
Begs me to withdraw: I would so far
Inhabit the universe outside than retreat
Within the calming solitude of myself.