Futurize This Malcontent

What pleases me most is a metaphor with wings.
Not a butterfly. They’re too real.
Nor a dream of some things.
Nor a condition of some feel:
A ghost stuck in glue.
A cartoon of me and you.
No, give me my back that I never see much.
Or spin around doing such and such.
Don’t ask me what till I do it.
Not a board nor a word to screw it.
Just simple me staring at my toes.
Sometimes touching them with my nose.
Then standing up and falling over.
Not on the lap of a four- leaf clover
but my mother who was accidentally there
when my father released a la-di-da bear.
And I stepped aside and watched them play
Goldilocks and Daffy Duck in their day.
Appreciating them with all their warts.
And seeing them compared with lissome tarts
as the wishful thought or naught of history.
No, give me a scientific study
to please my conscience of all that money.
How I fell in cash with my buddy.
An orangutan who didn’t last
because of global warming in the past
who just keeled over like a boat
and was harpooned as a shark by remote.
A case of unidentified anonymity.
But now it appears on every computer and TV
until boredom sets with the sun
And you and I are none
but an invention of sort.
And hydrogen fusion comes along!
And some distant planet peeps a song
about A-I being always with us
in ways and means of warming justice.
Well I’ve taken my leap.
Now put me to sleep.