The Wise Ry Guy

Little Man sat upon a green tree

The green tree’s weaves willows and leaves buoyed Little Man up as a billowy cloud might buoy itself up above

Little Man from up upon this green tree

Enjoyed a vantage point from which he could see

The sky and all the ends of the earth

Little Man’s world extended no further than the fingertips of his sight stretched

To his smaller eyes, ’twas a sturdy peace

To his bigger eye, wretched

Atop his green billowing throne, Little Man would survey his kingdom

And if Little Man were Another Man’s kingdom,

Another Man might survey how upon Little Man’s looker

Sat wrinkles and lines in every which way

Wrinkles of love and lines of disgust

Fluid desire on a stony-eyed bust

Little Man could look up from upon his green tree

Creasing the height of his forehead horizontally

Or turn to his right and accept the horizon

Pivot to the left for the plain of leaves arising

Then reset his spine to take on the breeze which eroded his expressional valleys

Only for wrinkles to return as Little Man would scrutinize the space before him in search of the wind

Another Man could survey the guilty smile Little Man bore

The gratefulness for his fortune, the upside-down hand on Little Man’s back

The entitlement to his kingdom, the ground Little Man lacked

Yes, Little Man could look all around his kingdom from atop that green tree

But never with confidence geared nor conscience cleared

Little Man questioned to struggle

And struggled, “to question?”

Little Man forgot to answer

Little Man forgot, to answer

His throne obliterated, the shards abound

Little Man’s body went down to the ground

And this Little Man experienced

Being shaken by these events

Time folded upon itself like a gooey invisible croissant

Each thought had not a beginning nor an end and each one was not the former nor the other either

Little Man was a jumble and his brain ’twas a bumble

Little Man had been aware of the storm

But less aware that the storm strove to demolish his throne

So Little Man sat on the dirt of this new lower plane

Feeling encapsulated by the sensation of his own vibrating blood surrounding his external

And his disposition’s every agitated shrug manifested as the beats of his heart

Such were the symptoms of Little Man’s relocation

For the wind had whisked his leaves

The torrents tumbled his trees

And they flew to Little Man as wine from the lees

And thus Little Man’s planet had flipped with respect to that greatest expanse,

The space which afforded his planet its pocket

Though the raucous buzz from the riotous transformation yet intermittently effaced Little Man’s vision by a pupil’s radio static,

Little Man began to examine this world beneath the trees

And those occasional bouts of static dizziness became simultaneous realizations and denials

The former the catastrophe bred from years of diffident doubts and subtle questions

The latter the cries of Little Man’s heart against his relocation of mind & body

But Little Man breathed slowly and walked upon his dirty, fallible paths of air

Lest a beating heritage slander the pupil

Indeed, Little Man began to taste and to see

Yet his trunk he wished to reconstruct

Little Man wished to climb back up

For on this newly arrived, likewise parallel yet vertically contradictory plane

The trees were not trees

The plants were not plants

The ponds were not ponds

Nor the frogs frogs

Little Man was conscious of all that was lost

Little Man realized so much had transpired

Little Man’s past was a beast of its own

His kingdom was gone, only leaving behind

The things which Little Man had learned on his throne

 

The End
Little Man thanks you for your undivided & undoubtedly confused attention.