I sent this poem to editors Robert Vaughan and Amanda Deo at Thunderclap Press not knowing whether or not it would work for them, or for their issue. I remember writing this and thinking we (Man in the universal sense), despite of all the pats on our backs we tend to give ourselves, are such powerless and useless animals when it comes to the total scheme of all things. We are slow to run, we are weak in muscles, we cannot swim fast, we get hot/cold within a short temperature range, we are uncomfortable most of the time out in nature…yet we aim to fly. So I found that the image of Man as a bird made from mud was appropriate. And that’s how the piece closes. For all of our achievements in our brief history, we are ultimately just figurines made from soft matter. We excel in theory or at theory and that’s for sure–where would we be without our inferences about the Higgs-Boson or the holographic information saved on the event-horizon of black holes or all the strings which seemingly govern and make up the universe? We excel. In theory.