Wolf-were: a wolf
who turns into a man
at the new moon.
an undead being
who sucks wallets.
Ghist: the spirit of a departed person
whose moans boil questions down
to their essence…
said the noted expert,
were obviously meant to be forgotten.
Apparently to expand my lead
over other species in my environment,
I can without warning
leap long distances
from a standing position.
You annoy me with one word
and I’m over there, across the street,
over the fence, gone away from you
as swiftly as the scorn for you
rose within me.
I call such leaps “My Adaptation.”
Survival of the fittest demands this.
For this adaptation to become
part of the species’ genetic code, however,
I must mate and — POP! — sadly,
this seems out of reach.
POP! When I am this lonely
I annoy myself — POP! — and cannot stay
close enough to a partner for long
as I pop off to get away from my detestable self,
which never works; thus, I am always a failure.
I long to someday conquer this
and spread my jumping seed. Imagine
the planet seen from above, from on high,
from the heavens — all those bodies
leaping about, like a civilization
grown from a flea circus…and my love and I,
either standing stock still among the arcs,
or leaping away together, hand in hand.