With a prick, it begins.
A needle struck in the neocortex
or misfiring neuron, which sees
at first the disk of the sun,
the lunar surface,
water roiling down hills,
the shape of a well-worn pebble
slid easily off on its own.
And so bangs one thought against another.
Wood to stump, stone on stone,
all day in the sweet pearl of the sun
setting about to make things loop and roll.
It begins with a prick.
A spark in the neocortex
or misstruck neuron, firing, what
could be called a birth defect
that sets us off, on this path.
Fire was a gift.
A strike picked from the embers
of a spent forest. Not a leap
to keep that branch alive,
pass it down through generations,
heirloom, song, olympic birthright.
It was right to keep the cave warm,
nothing needed be reshaped.
But to so bang one against another.
To shape the sun, stone to stone,
all day catching quick sparks
on the hairs of heavy arms.
In the end, the prick wins.
While others drug family about
on long hides, grunting and sweating,
the one with the rough round thoughts
rolled easily over the flat plain,
and at night, in the face of the saved fire
had gas left to paint the trek in ink,
in mud easily on the walls.
phone: 70 425 Poems