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"My Ancestor" (by Joe DiMino)
My ancestor came to this world
I am told
Either of two ways—
Neither would have had
A Green-card;
(Aliens before officials with access to printers);
Perhaps my direct line, the slime—
Microscopic
Slug of a being;
With affinity
For tattoos and Harleys;
Father and mother
Somewhere on Element-table
(Still writing itself,
Consummating a base
To evolve past
Pizza parlors and Strip Clubs) (Symphonies and tucks,
A sophisticated Leech’s Masquerade)—
While my other consideration
For Planet-seeder,
Perhaps a spirit-spark—
Long before eyes to see,
And ministers to bless
If tithing;
Before snake-like incense rising
To charm into mindless following;
The sound of lovely Choral Singers
Mouthing praise,
Painting of voices
Into Divine image
With angels—
As I said,
My ancestor came here
One of two ways—
Perhaps both of the two ways;
We humans accustomed to either—or;
Up—down, in—out;
But Greater Space has no direction
In that sense,
Direction always only that in which one is traveling;
The east and west—north and south, etc,
Who, where, when and why—etc
Relative to him, her, they, it, where—etc;
Could be Time itself, is a large, flexible molecule
Of existence, moving back—forth, in—out
Of its permeable wall, from center to periphery,
Periphery—center—maybe no periphery or center—
Thought that comes and goes at whim—(without a mind);
Having no beginning—end
Always sort of just been—
Sleeping in shadows,
A form of consciousness needing the right rattle
Or music
Or rifle-shot
Or love’s call
To awaken;
As I said,
I came here somehow—
Not particularly fond of primordial-slug scenario
(Though often behaving as such)—
Primordial soup
Without spices—veggies
Not sounding appetizing to me
If palatable at all;
But one swims-in, eats what he or she is—
Only taking out
Stipend proportional to investment,
When allowed to reap
A crop sown (there are always bigger slugs
Slurping-up the smaller
With its drippings)—
As I said,
Somehow I came
Saw
Conquered into retreat—
Never seeming to have what I want
More intangible;
Feeling the flame
Standing in fire of self—
Watching transformed me
Lift as curly-cues
Of smoke;
I am lost in the rings
So enamored of circles—
My patterns
Broken by mere currents
Of air;
While yet I am a force
Having power enough
To tear Earth to shreds
With one, large, atomic—belch;
As I said,
I came
Out of heat
Out of cold—without a best friend;
My own puddle of acquaintances—
Yet to invent
And if I had one
In this case—
Something far different,
Without a wagging tail
And slobbering kiss—
Not a hairy or bald thing,
Nothing firmly
Resembling a breast;
I am told by my wife
We are two of the Evolutionary,
Only one with a brain;
Of psychology we bleed,
Those who hate
Math,
So major
In God’s couch—
Our first thoughts
Not anthropomorphic
But simply metamorphic;
Not of higher being
By Mystic Design
But more Gucci
Or Tiffany—
Chagall
Picasso
Disney—
As I said,
I am open
To consideration
Of a third way—