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Poem

Monkeys were never us; 
our entrance is more than theory. 
I came standing erect and complete.
The dust was to indulge (except of the tree)
in the place provided, where the voice walked 
in the cool of the day. 

Leopards and lambs, 
like Puppy Yellow 
and the calico moving balls of yarn; 
the fallen, like a snake,
wooed the woman that queried 
and she went away towing her husband. 

I am out of character, image, 
likeness of the Divine
whose flood sculpted mountains and isles, 
there, dividing men 
and painted them 
in new colors with freezing fingers.

Sasquatch, your blurred trace, 
speaks loud of the instrument now used.
Of me Ibrahim was assured. 
The pyramids are mathematics the God teaches; 
their wisdom raised the boulders 
(the two Gods that share the Spirit).
I mosey through a sea to be here; 
this point where they are history?

Monkeys were never us. If so,
who limits the fruition? I still see them
tree-hopping. 
I am Enoch walking with him, 
lodging far afield the daughters of men.
I occur with an enormous bang
far superior to a hypothesis.

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