Cloud Nation

Welcome to National Cloud-Lands
National Monument and Gunnery Range
said the ranger.
Don’t worry, ma’am, gunnery
on Thursdays and alternate Sundays.
Today clouds.
Trust me, mother, you will just love
these fluffy buggers, best dang clouds
in North America
here expressly for your viewing pleasure.
It takes all kinds of clouds
to make a sky. No sweat, mama,
we’ve labeled them by high powered laser.

Hi there folks, I’m Adam,
your ranger
in charge of naming.
You’ll feel comfy once these
puff daddies get named.
This here’s Old Unfaithful, see how quick
it changes. That scaly
buck is Mutant Mackerel. Over there’s
Big ‘Shroom, with L’il Fluffball in tow.
Last week Mount Rushmore
wafted by. Campers got a kick figuring out
which president was which.
And for our Native guests
herds of cumulus buffalo chased down
by Sitting Bull mounted on a bucking nimbus.

That’s right, our clouds are historically
sound and meteorologically
correct. Best dang clouds in North America
protected forever for you, for me,
and for generations yet unwhelped.
That means no shooting by presidential decree,
except on Thursdays and alternate Sundays,
when we give the kiddies
flak jackets and surplus missile launchers.
Little bastards have a ball
punching the stuffing out of these big roosters.
Chill out, luv, it’s all in fun,
haven’t lost a cloud yet.

Quetzalcoatl

There is a bird in a cage
behind the door at the end of the hallway.
It sings whenever I walk by
on my way to the elevator.
Which makes me think that—who knows—maybe
there is a jungle behind that door.
Maybe there is a sky above the jungle,
a blaze-blue tropical sky,
and if the door ever actually opened
I would fall into the sky.
Or some beast would leap out
with saber fangs and an obsidian pelt.
Or the bird would fly out,
a whole jabbering flock of blue-green trogans
from a Guatemalan cloud forest.
Maybe a quetzal amongst them, the sacred bird
of the Quiche Maya. Or Quetzalcoatl himself,
plumed serpent, giver of life,
master of death and resurrection,
who with his mighty breath
blew the sun upon its present course.
So who knows—if that door should ever open—
what wind would leap out, would leap out
like this poem from the bone-bright cage of the cranium,
who knows what rapturous fangs of life of death
would seize me on my way to the elevator.
Though for now the bird sings sweetly
to throw us off the track.

Inter-Animal Dialogue

The dog and the philosophers were in Central Park
for their annual inter-animal dialogue.

This year the question under discussion was:
Does the man walk the dog, or the dog walk the man?

Thoreau broke the ice noting drolly, “The one
who holds the chain is himself enchained.”

Dog said, “Pooch leads, human follows to scoop the poop.”

Lao Tzu remarked cryptically, “The low is the mother to the high,
the beast is the father to the man.”

Dog shot back, “Don’t you tell them our little secret.”

The Buddha reflected that, since neither dogs nor men possess
inherent selfhood, the question under discussion is a moot one.

Dog furrowed its brow and heartrendingly whimpered.

Karl Marx proclaimed, “Doggies of the world unite,
you have got nothing to loose but your leashes.”

Dog replied, “But honey, I’m not a political animal.”

Nietzsche pointed out that dog
is God spelled backwards.

Dog barked, “This wise guy knows something!”

Sartre observed tartly that a dog’s life is meaninglessness
compounded of misery.

Dog wailed, “Lighten up dude.”

Christ declared, “Suffer the little puppies to come unto me,
for though they neither spin nor sew, they wear nifty sweaters.”

Dog quipped, “Flip me a bone, and I’ll follow you anywhere.”

Oprah chimed in, “Don’t just follow like a dog, Rover,
go out there and make your own reality.”

Dog yawned, “You make the reality, Oprah, I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

Thomas Aquinas reasoned, “Dog is to man
as man is to God.”

Dog retorted, “Your theology is top down, whereas mine is bottoms up.”

Aristotle stammered, “It would seem this canine
is a rational animal.”

Dog yelped, “Cogito ergo sum.”

Descartes for the very first time in his life
was rendered not just speechless, but altogether thought-free.

Dog winked at the staggered French rationalist and teased,
“Who said you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?”

By now the philosophers were besides themselves,
They got down on their haunches and howled.

God flashed a high five from the sky,
said, “OK, Rover, should we tell them?”

Dog bow wowed ecstatically.

God, assuming a grave demeanor, pronounced, “The man
walks the dog who walks the man who walks the dog.”

The philosophers broke into a paroxysm of applause.

But when they looked up at a world transformed, God was gone.
And so too was God spelled backwards.