Man is most naturally unnatural.
Walking with awkward arrogance—two legs, not four;
Neither powerful nor swift.
The sun burns, the wind chills—
No fur, nor scales, nor feathers, nor armor. Defense is simply mind.
Nakedness.
Teeth made for scavenging and scavenging alone:
Neither hunt nor harvest, just selfish existence.
Claws—thin, flat, short, dull, and brittle.
The frame—solid, bulky, not hollow for flight; yet fragile, unsuited for laborious work.
Lazy and content—the jungle-sloth is not the sloth.
To walk—that is to slither,
Slime bleeding from the soles and arches.
The Bottom-feeder sits comfortably on the throne,
While the slug smiles down from its pedestal.
Created from the mud—the muck of the earth
And his mate from his own flawed rib—
In whose likeness?
Forgets he, or ignores.
The resemblance fades to ashes and dust.
Do the insects have a God?
Do they worship glass or green grass?
Or the sun or Venus?
Does the ant with the largest hill live the happiest life?
From ten comes one,
Love thy neighbor as possessions—
Oh! Just imagine!
The Utopia
Eden.
Man's lids are not like the croc's, when in water he is blind,
And when basking in light he is blind,
When in darkness he cannot see like the owl.
He only sees in the muddled gray that lies between everything beautiful or special
Or remarkable—
Man nests in Limbo.
The gift of speech
Given by whom?
“Oh, that does not matter. I can talk, communicate, and write. I alone.”
The voice of reason—
Spreads.
Yet, can he close his ears or nose to protect from foulness?
He keeps the senses he loathes most,
And does not keep those he loves most.
Taken for granted are all—and equally dull.
The eagle eye sees truth,
The friend-of-man sniffs out the wickedness of souls,
The cave-dweller hears the beating wings of a far-off moth—
The Book of Knowledge sees nothing, smells nothing, hears nothing,
Each page blank, gray—filled with lifeless, ingenious logic.
Ah! To feel,
To feel is to love to feel,
The birds and the bees would agree,
But also to produce more than to please—The Wasp disagrees.
Pleasure is most pleasurable when meaning more than just pleasure?
“No,” says Man. “Happy is he who is happy for himself. That is all that matters.”
To feel is to love to feel; to see…to see is unheard of.
Survival of the fittest?
Walking with awkward arrogance—two legs, not four;
Neither powerful nor swift.
Defense is mind, and only mind—here, now, selfishness is spawned:
This is more than survival.
To adapt is to destroy.
To invent is to kill.
Surviving most naturally unnaturally,
“How can this be? I possess a brain and thumbs,” protests Man.
“I am special and unique.”
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