Everyday I walk a circle
around the office building,
a computer rat in the health food age.
I skirt the trees wanting, but too abashed, to unskirt them.
Sometimes, between the cars,
sometimes, if I'm lucky, I get to see
the idiopathing menagerie.
Not idiots-passing, idiopathic or i-do-pathetically,
as sometimes gets confused,
but the marching stranges,
the walking weirds,
More unique than genes,
bizarrer ideations passing
In their own circles and beyond
Leaving me little and in jury.
They rocket from cube farms into pre-lunch,
maintaining pulse and pleased,
revolving with constant smiles,
orbiting in uniformity.
Not matching, just uniformed in oddity.
The tall thin ring man with his hiking pack
filled to the brim with who-knows?
From bottom to top: He's hiking boots, cargo shorts,
glasses, gaunt pale skin,
thin red hat and (back down to) wide skeleton smile,
motionless as a xeroxed garfield grin.
Behind him, two steps, a wrinkleless feminine asiatica
serene, chiaroscuroed up from white shoes,
to gray pants, to black blouse, until
a burst of color -- more variegated than the word -- fireworks
on her hat
which lays flat like an obese lily flower.
And two steps more is a darker man, squat whose
Arms waddle like tense sausages
Pivoting past basketball shorts, and framing
A rectangularity prouder than
A computer monitor box
That is just happy and surprised to be agent.
All three gait identically
muscularly
broadly
and look connected by string,
a group of puppets escaping
around the parking lot everyday
With equal enthusiasm.
This explosion of self
shadows the noon sun
as they step in unison to unheard new orleans
spaghetti jazz wonkey spliced with
wing barbra streisand and the beastie boys.
Better than any aristotelian music of the spheres I'll tell you.
around the office building,
a computer rat in the health food age.
I skirt the trees wanting, but too abashed, to unskirt them.
Sometimes, between the cars,
sometimes, if I'm lucky, I get to see
the idiopathing menagerie.
Not idiots-passing, idiopathic or i-do-pathetically,
as sometimes gets confused,
but the marching stranges,
the walking weirds,
More unique than genes,
bizarrer ideations passing
In their own circles and beyond
Leaving me little and in jury.
They rocket from cube farms into pre-lunch,
maintaining pulse and pleased,
revolving with constant smiles,
orbiting in uniformity.
Not matching, just uniformed in oddity.
The tall thin ring man with his hiking pack
filled to the brim with who-knows?
From bottom to top: He's hiking boots, cargo shorts,
glasses, gaunt pale skin,
thin red hat and (back down to) wide skeleton smile,
motionless as a xeroxed garfield grin.
Behind him, two steps, a wrinkleless feminine asiatica
serene, chiaroscuroed up from white shoes,
to gray pants, to black blouse, until
a burst of color -- more variegated than the word -- fireworks
on her hat
which lays flat like an obese lily flower.
And two steps more is a darker man, squat whose
Arms waddle like tense sausages
Pivoting past basketball shorts, and framing
A rectangularity prouder than
A computer monitor box
That is just happy and surprised to be agent.
All three gait identically
muscularly
broadly
and look connected by string,
a group of puppets escaping
around the parking lot everyday
With equal enthusiasm.
This explosion of self
shadows the noon sun
as they step in unison to unheard new orleans
spaghetti jazz wonkey spliced with
wing barbra streisand and the beastie boys.
Better than any aristotelian music of the spheres I'll tell you.
