The species and genus
known as Homo sapiens
predominated across the webbed wide world
for tens of thousands of years
until many brain children teamed together,
(though nevertheless select individuals
such as Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble
contributed, the initial vision
and much of the core technology
from Amazon's internal development efforts)
birthing Alexa Echo.

I got my hands on one
courtesy Bill Thurman,
a genuine bluebeard and outlier
of the rough and tumble sort
now residing at Highland Manor Apartments.

An earthworm squirms, its fate unsure,
on pavement hot as soup du jure.
Norm comes upon it. “Little Noodle,”
he says, “you’ll bake like apple strudel.”

Norm sizes up the situation.
The worm’s at risk of dehydration.
“I could have squished it with my sandal,”
says Zip. “Far worse than being a vandal.”

“Yes,” says Norm, “you’d be a felon.
Good thing you didn’t! There’s no tellin’
what the annelid collective
would do to you as a corrective.”

He pulls his license out and slips
it under Noodle. Girlfriend Zip’s

Grass is a taut crew;
  They stand at attention
As soldiers do
  With orders from the sun –

Never having thoughts
  That their purpose is trite
Or any nagging doubts
  Or need of strife.

How admirable their rank –
  How exemplary their queue –
I whispered to one blade –
  Living as they do.

A dream is a butterfly
Fresh from the cocoon
That is realized and soon
Flutters up into the sky

Or faltering, goes astray
Is suddenly killed
While young still
And fast fades away.

Come and find me in this garden;
  I know not where the hours go.
Palm fronds brush against my cheek –
  Lone toadstool, blush of mallow.

They say this is the Garden of Eden –
  Rocks of lichen, red yucca.
But I think this is probably heaven –
  Birds-of-paradise and vinca.

You will find here a green shelter;
  Shade fills the inner sanctuary.
Canaries whistle o'er yonder –
  Dew drops on a banana leaf.

Let's be as kids like we once were;
  Take my hand, let's go find its end.

On Havana's white shore –
With each salt-infused whirl
That agitates its border –
Every sand is a potential pearl.

I know a place of silence
Where one can roam about -
Touch the height of peace
And watch the morning crown.
It's a place well-hidden -
Where no worry survives -
Where no thoughts break in
And living hope abides -
Where seraphs may be found
And joy is my raiment -
Where clouds meet the ground
And keep the dewy haven.
It's under mesquite trees -
Over their medusan roots
And in mellow sun rays
And their assuring proofs.
It's by the pale mescals -
Under some tender stalk -
Between granite boulders

Love is many, Water is many
And flows aplenty
But Fire is one
And consumes until gone
All but purity.

If to each other we belong
And we’re to stay strong
Then feel the fever
And douse with ether;
Purify the bond.

The wind hears many secrets
   As he blows at his election.
Only a hearer at best –
   He mulls them over and again
But doesn’t repeat or think aloud
For there are too many to recount.

The wind also has many lovers –
   Appreciating the trees –
Caressing the flowers
   And cooling warm cheeks
But preferring to roam –
Blows away to a place unknown.