On This Planet

Iím putting one foot in front of the other.
All my bones and tendons know what theyíre doing.
My animal body greets my fellow animals so:
You, Mr. & Mrs. Squirrel, and you, Sir Earthworm,
donít think I donít see your dazzling performance.
Iím remembering something from long ago,
I canít tell when, I breathed in like a Buddha,
out like a bear, when I could tell it was leaves
wrapped everything in a proliferation of green.

Iím putting one arm in front of the other,
theyíre swinging like pendulums tied to intelligence.
Everything is green or whizzing,
the blood in my body or the grass, for instance,
the black cap on Miss Chickadee
nearly doffing itself, so skittery
she is, expostulating ambulation.
All the stars are out and the moon and sun.

Iím so happy Iím almost flying to my grave,
all my atoms orbiting, orbiting each other
till thereís no "my" left.
My DNA is recapitulating so fast
all you can see is where I was,
not where all my arthritic elements
and proto-tumors are off to.

All my mothers and fathers are about to die.
They creak, they tilt, they get night blindness.
Whose diaper will I change next?
My nieces sing the song of poopie caca doodoo
and giggle, happily embarrassed.I sing too.
A gigglefest of farts.

Even consumers become people again
some hours after theyíve walked the mall
out of their feet, window displays out
of their eyes, digital carols out of their ears,
Roy Rogers, Macy*s perfumes out of their nose.

Iím up in the pine bough, the one Cezanne painted
over on the left. A summer breeze soughs inside me.
December, go ahead, rattle your freezing rains.
All my chilblains have fled to the Bermuda Triangle.

The end is coming now. The Christmas child,
Rockefeller Center, Trade Towers, the holy
buggered search for Osama, Superbowl XXXVI.

Iím casting my prayers to the four directions.
On this planet, Iím running, not walking.

On this planet, Iím running, not walking.