the tall, tired-looking, overcoated man/walks with a slight limp up the sidewalk/on the east side of the bridge/that goes over the surging river
near its apex he stops and opens the box he has carried/and pulls out the drone it contained/along with its controller/and sets them both on the sidewalk
he puts a pale blue dot the drone will sense/in the middle of his forehead
pulls cut-resistant gloves from a pocket/and draws them on
picks up the controller/and punches and slides and joysticks the controls/and the camera-laden drone/stirs and rises and positions itself/a foot above and three feet away from his face/its bright green RECORD light gleaming
and the man says, “My name is Olaf Lindberg.
“I am a frustrated inventor. [pause]/I am about to perform a demonstration/For which I will require more strength/than I normally have.”
dr. lindberg puts his gloved hand in a pocket and pulls out a large spansule of deep green/pops it into his mouth, and swallows it.
he looks at the drone’s camera lens/and says, “I am not suicidal, but what I am about to do/ carries a moderate risk of injury,/and a slight risk of death.”
with that he jumps four feet upward/and grabs the chain-link fencing/arcing over the sidewalk/above his head.
the drone whirs upward in sync/guided by the pale blue dot.
(end of part one)
One with Clay, Image and Text 