Nature's Shut-In

Entangled in the mesh

of my Corruptant: shrill anxiety,

my mangled first impressions,

so reluctant, kill society's

desire to assimilate —

exiled in a heartbeat.

*

Come, gamble, take a bet

as to my type of personality.

Some preamble to the debt

I owe this ripe and rich reality:

expire, rue, commiserate —

compiled, we are art/meat.

*

Call me Earthworm Jake,

I thrive in pits

of cold, wet dirt

with not much else around.

Materialistic ectotherms can't take,

beyond their ritz

and fancy shirts,

the sacred and profound

inner nothingness of mud.

An invitation, cordial,

from the Earthly soup, primordial,

ever extended,

often ignored.

If you only knew what it took

to get you to this point,

you'd never be bored.

*

Poking around with my cilia

to navigate my cellular den.

Rubbing elbows with the mycelia

who may have invented Zen

before a single monk

ever arose from evolution.

*

I decompose the stuff of life

so as to cultivate the next.

I am Consciousness under the knife

and you, the surgeon, ever perplexed.

The cost of Life is sunk,

but I propose a dirty solution.

*

There's magic in the simple stuff,

in the touches of grass and wind.