If you'll allow my own special crudeness
A disability of being born a caveman
In a world where we have become powerful.

I like deer and buffalo.
I don't get hungry as often as you do, you have to eat all the time
yet my hunger is deeper.

My work is a triumph, it is pure magic
To make a likeness 
On how animals move and still themselves.
there is nothing more excellent.

Everyone is a genius; I mean that; we jostle for attention.

I tried to follow this world, not knowing the many worlds under this thin veil. the one the Goddess changes to suit her mood. Cling to her veil and get swept away

(the Goddess is busy being glorious, voluptuous, serene.)

Genius does not depend on competition or collaboration.
It does not depend on what other people are doing or what they have or believe. 

The pioneers that get ignored, enumerated.

1) A monkey's hands are a pure genius.
2) A bird's beak is genius
3) The designs of spiders
4) The Stygian hollows of a wasp nest
5) sloths are lazy? Whatever it is they do is genius.
...

Some say our magic gets more and more real,
As if real or unreal was something I could weigh in my hand.

I see these animals and plants as they are to me,
their liquid intelligence commanding such graceful movements
stooping for water, hunting and praying to escape a hunt
why am I not recognized as being among them?

Is my magic still excellent? 
even if I find myself in this time?

we still need our own liquid grace, our houses like the wasps, 
we need the Art of the Sloth more than we know.

Now the old magic is called vandalism.
Is it because I stoop for the water and food I find
in an urban wilderness? I join the fox and the bird in drinking from a puddle in the park. What is good enough for them, is good enough for me.

To be truly wild is to live like a flame
brilliant, fragile
I feared for my life among cavemen, 
and if I made a mistake I would be dead.

we have greater fear now

fear made us live, goading us to nourish our senses, of smell, of bare touch on soft cold earth, the brush that paints dew on our skin. 

Plants appeared mighty then. A plant for every illness, every wellness, every star in the ancestral night sky. Their deep magic was dominant, not to be enslaved. A factory conformity of plants, called farming, should we allow that kind of life into our circle, where some of us are weeds? What does it mean to live as a farmer, and not a hunter?

Fear is collectively generated. 

We cannot blame a few men or one god.

the colors I have touched on a cave wall, my magic of likenesses 
On the subject of grace in the animal life, Now 
I cannot paint them in a way that they are 20,000 years old. 

My work earns destitution, donations of fear disguised as care, and a place among the gods... the one we created so we could deposit our fears into him.

such monstrous collective activity. 

yet, I accept your fear because that is what you need. 

I will be that foolish god for you, because a caveman knows not to guard his precious bulk against all the pain that courage brings. 

I anoint you with a prayer for grace, and

"There is a hell of a good universe next door, let's go." --ee cummings