#primates
They jump from high trees
Yellowish-Brown swift leapers
In the torrid heat
Mar 30, 2021
Mar 30, 2021 at 12:36 AM UTC
Alien Nation
by Michael R. Burch
for J. S. S., a "Christian" poet
On a lonely outpost on Mars
the astronaut practices “speech”
as alien to primates below
as mute stars winking high, out of reach.
And his words fall as bright and as chill
as ice crystals on Kilimanjaro —
far colder than Jesus’s words
over the “fortunate” sparrow.
And I understand how gentle Emily
felt, when all comfort had flown,
gazing into those inhuman eyes,
feeling zero at the bone.
Oh, how can I grok his arctic thought?
For if he is human, I am not.
Note: The coinage “grok” appears in Robert Heinlein’s classic sci-fi novel "Stranger in a Strange Land." The novel’s protagonist, Valentine Michael Smith, was raised on Mars by enlightened Martians, and he often feels out of sorts on Earth, where he struggles to grok (understand deeply and profoundly) earthlings and their primitive, often inhuman, ways. Keywords/Tags: Mars, astronaut, alien, primates, stars, words, ice, crystals, Jesus, sparrow, Emily, Dickinson, zero, bone, arctic, thought, human, inhuman
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 5:25 AM UTC
The annual Darwin Gay Ball
Was a gala occasion for all.
The Australopithecus
looked quite ridiculous
Leaning, half-drunk, on the wall.
Zinjanthropus, high on bananas
Uttered forth a long chain of Hosannas.
Although missing a link,
He knew just what to think
And went cruising for greener savannas.
The Cro-Magnons (more agile than Lucy)
Like their hunting and gathering juicy.
The mating was prime
And their dance, so sublime,
could out-monkey the funky Watusi.
Twas a lowbrow event; all the same,
Proto-drag-queens competed for fame.
The divine **** Habilis***,
Hairy, but fabulous,
Gave Knuckle-Dragging its name.
**** Sapiens***' wisdom has wrecked us
As the Darwinist doctrines infect us.
Knuckle-draggers may dream,
But bonobos now scream
That the winner is: **** Erectus***!
Feb 26, 2020
Feb 26, 2020 at 7:08 AM UTC
A stones throw from heaven
To bad they close at eleven
Guess I'll be eating with the devil again
He doesn't care about all my sin
We'll talk and laugh and drink some gin
We'll play pinochle and I'll let him win
I'll never have to worry about being cold
I won't be blinded by the street's of gold
I'll play fetch with his hound
Won't have to worry about that heavenly crown
We'll smoke a bowl and get real high
Won't have to worry about how angels fly
We'll crank that metal music up till the earth shakes
No worrying about being tested till I break
I'll be there with the rest of the primates
No more worrying about those locked pearly gates
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 5:24 AM UTC