'fear of bodies and the magnetized whirlpool of gas'

I am a predation species
    do not eat.
vein-frail recluse
    squalid and bobbing
a man who was rich 
    and still living in poverty.

redundant doo-dads
    and symbiotic partnerships
it cleans out its parasites
    by just adding one and one together-
used to be agonistic
    becoming symbiotic together.
chemical and biological weapons proliferations,
    biological things can happen to you
disputed territories
    arise upon.

dont aim for perfection
    the problem is infectious disease
we hear a lot these days
    "the only process that works / focuses intently on failure"
what went wrong
     in the town report
the oil rig that went up in flames
    as a spotlight,
or a map
    deaths due to improvised explosive devices
is on display in this tragic scenario
    based on plans and descriptions
a young specialist
     in hill-billy armor
what are we doing,
     design a vehicle, after this altercation.
welcome to this theater
     without and idea of-
we're incredible
     we're in-credibly adaptable.
sailors didn't know exactly where they were
    creative redundancy
form a partnership

the spotlight on myself
    the sticking point.
it covers itself in a protein cloak
    now i have a built-in
shark conservation
    shark-fin soup
such a richer sense
    risk-filled and unpredictable

-a creative adaptation of the first CIGI Signature Lecture of 2013 by Rafe Sagarin.

rattle a rocket of bones

they took up a tally

in tourniquet alley

and wept from a socket of thorn


soon they saw Sally,

who was part of the tally,

and leapt as though newly reborn


from cradles they cry

with a glint in the eye

of rockets rampant and roam


the devil did lie

from his cavernous thigh

and left but a pocket of loam.


from thence they gathered

in mutinous mather,

without so much as a fire


so hence they wence

to pocket a pence

and rend the heavenly spire


Sally said not a word,

As clear as a bird

But sang along anyway after.

hollowed under sun and stars

As idlers pass us by

under the Palace of leaves

Behind a grove below the sky,

a cypress tree grows, huddled in a swarm of bees.

In branches whorled and malignant

sit vultures tamed and shivering, alighting

on red breezes, off to find


to pluck out

his eyes.

They hurl epithets at one another and sigh,

swallowing halos from the dome that

hangs thick and wet.

Their tonsur'd heads bob to the pulse

of a cloudless sky.