I don't know what it is with them,
These carbon-based life forms.

Paddling in water mostly,
They are little more than liquid
Themselves.

They get so much done
Just breathing!

They have this noisy way
Of coming into the world
And of dying
Soon after
Ending it quietly
On schedule.

They think and fool themselves
In groups,
Are compelled to fuck
Quick and fearful
In the dark

They are not inclined
To take risks
But will deliver
Their beating hearts
To the highest bidder.

We understand them
Poorly
But at least this much:

Their energy comes
From the sun,
Their spirit from the moon.
They waste most of both
By exhaling and getting nowhere.

If they love anything
They love air
And wetness
And for the sheer fun of it
Putting seeds and eggs together
Over and over.

Only rarely will the great-grandfathers
Last long enough to meet the great-grandchildren.
So messages in bottles
Are sent to float and whisper
In the blood.

Singing, they turn their neighbors
Into tuning-forks.
They do most everything
Chemically
And in unison,
Like fireflies.

Lonely, lonely
They soldier on.

Admirable, cruel, awesome,
Beautiful beautiful
All of us.


-- Panama, 6 February 2005