The oldest neuroscience
Thinking is easy. Little roots do it, drinking like
blacks did in the cane. And brains do it always
hawking for a small world of feeling good.
Jaws drip in years of hops growing down talks.
What thinking ever did I don’t know so well
of, since it never did much but bully my ears,
part folding to fellows, part to sawing.
Let me explain. If I weren’t so weak-bodied,
arthritic as the termites made my house
I, poor asthmatic me, poor arthritic me,
a slate on the four walls or five lucky men
thought could make the building of their
world, somehow for the nots and somehow
for the haves half white and half curling
into their bellies for the BMW they sucked
a stub for, lucky me, biting my thumbs like
they did wrong, I never knew of luxuries
beyond the belly, and never cared for strolling
with my head up to dead satellites, those
portraitures for our primate time tellings
that told of a high six feet but not very buried.