Infants, who will not make drudgery out of everything;
they might cry if given the space and opportunity,
but nothing is wrong with their noble, holy crying!
It’s either that or the mammals have to go,
there will come a six-legged waterbug
with miniscule spheres on its legs’ ends.
This milkbug will glide like a skater.
This milkbug will be graceful,
its twelve eyes
taking in the shimmering pearls
stretching from the rings it makes
each time it pushes forward
to the horizon like the rim of a glass.
This milkbug will teach us humans
an unthought course in evolution:
learn to walk on water, go to miracle first
before deciding to fuse with the machine!
The rings it makes each time it pushes forward,
they will have messages inside them
for the adept to glean;
those skilled at deciphering moving milk
will read the round loose lines.
Our code master will rock in laughter at the message there.
What have you done, fair species, the ring begins then ripples outward and with the birth of a smaller ring inside the first there’s something else to read, something else the history books,
the latest research in anthropology or biology, left out.
The sun makes the milk a yellow
you would give to a shy toddler
who always begs mother to take her
outside so she can pick flowers.
The milkbug is prepared to take elegant sips
of milk cold in patches, or cool
or milk hot in patches, or warm
from the sun-drenched endless pool of milk.
Still weaving its silky threads on the liquid ivory
it clears its throat, invisible to the naked eye
and continues You had such a thing going here.
What with the sky-scrapers, the civilization,
hospitals and libraries--
someone even cared about the starvation
of countless babies rather than leave them swirl
in black matter-dust--
the land of milk and honey.
Now the honey is gone! The sweet viscous joy of your honey!
And how did you make amends, by reaching, reaching
squeezing like greedy piglets the teat
until the breast burst
and all around us there is only milk.
Milk the color of my envy
for what you once had,
Milk tainted now--here’s the future you left--
with teeming algae.
2.
Poison of the skies
of the skies in day
of the skies in midday
of the skies when night falls
of the skies when the sky is purple, black and blue
Midnight sky still no escape.
Dawn and clear sky still no elusion
from its dripping down into the soil
remorselessly and without any hesitation.
The sky of an ordinary day, quieted worries, friends
taking you to the beach on the east side
to share with you the sandy earth and the sky,
the way the clouds are layered up there
for the sensitive eye; this sky does nothing
to mitigate the devastation:
this sky might be the most dangerous sky,
a terror-filled sky
ready to erupt
at any time,
each cloud a glowering volcano
with a green-yellow halo of wrath
ready to let stream the substance,
the dread thick substance
from that layer we look up to
and do not believe in;
we do not believe something so thin
could hold back something so thick.
Poison of the skies tested
by defying hands.
Poison of the skies taken
from the swelling glowing global breasts.
Poison of the skies dripping,
then pouring,
then white-water flooding the streets.
We drink this poison and feel satisfied
as it coats our throats.
We let it pour the more!
We let it wash down!
We let ourselves drown
beneath the surface shining
like marble freshly polished
for the ancient holy rites:
marble of a temple.
We don’t care, when others say
Don’t drink it,
holding out their hands
like one saving a drowning child.
We don’t care, and take monstrous gulps
from the earthen bowl,
we share with the microorganisms
dancing in the thickness.
Our only witness are these unseen swimmers
swimming alongside us, they teach us many things
about resilience, about keeping on the course
even when it’s obvious you’ve made a wrong turn--
You could always transform,
just transform and adapt,
they would say--
about staying small.
The skies, when they fall poisonous
right into the children’s glasses,
the glasses they hold up to their parents
or teachers,
These skies are our only skies,
But we drink from them,
we pull from them,
we make constant demands from them,
at our own risk.
2.
Poison of the skies
of the skies in day
of the skies in midday
of the skies when night falls
of the skies when the sky is purple, black and blue
Midnight sky still no escape.
Dawn and clear sky still no elusion
from its dripping down into the soil
remorselessly and without any hesitation.
The sky of an ordinary day, quieted worries, friends
A human being-question chasing after both God and nothingness. The internet is a disaster, but our starlessness might teach us something. I welcome our constant experimenting with ourselves with open arms, for ultimately they are attempts of life at living and growing in life. My dwelling is in Key West, while the dwellings of my loves are Indiana, New Mexico, Texas, Massachusetts and Arizona. These spaces are nothing. Love abides and love embraces.
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I like your first one with all the details full and filled out and the second one trickled down… it’s effective with the flow and subject. A visceral visual going down to the bone structure… down to the marrow. Beautiful poem Mr. Q and epic.
Thank you, Mr. Z. These words of yours gave me some delight today. This one was written in a swoon in such a way that I still get new things from it when I reread it.
Love the Dust 
I like your first one with all the details full and filled out and the second one trickled down… it’s effective with the flow and subject. A visceral visual going down to the bone structure… down to the marrow. Beautiful poem Mr. Q and epic.
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Thank you, Mr. Z. These words of yours gave me some delight today. This one was written in a swoon in such a way that I still get new things from it when I reread it.
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