Wednesday, November 27, 2013

Shake The Weary Muzzle

Cut you slack, for all your aching, there are no songs for bodies breaking.
The animal strain of animal gain, as animal games
Like parlor tricks when guests arrive, the weak too strong to long survive,
Nor procreate their hearts and minds in little ones for buying time.
All the rest is death and dying, earthen clods of friends and foe,
And lovers lost touch long ago.
Blurring spots behind the lids of eyes squeezed tight,
Where nothing's wrong, and nothing's right.

Gaming tables, knuckles pound, in for the kill and double down.
Wolf eyes glowing, hot breath blowing, nostrils flare in brief palpations,
Sensing subtle variations, of tundras frozen long ago, of memories we cannot know.
Drag down prey and monster pots, death and dying, warm and hot,
Dragged home in bankrolled bloodied clots, to huddled humans on the spot.
Dead weight collapses on dried leaves, the shaking, wearied muzzle heaves.
Exhaustion howls, the wind and rain, the world begins to shrink again
To black hole point, ceased conscious mind, the empty sleep of cow eyed calm.

Rise and fall in repetition, reborn daily dead condition.
Endless night, endless day, endless give and take away.
Warm sun the fur, the animal rises, another day with no surprises,
Interval sets of daily stress, the keen knife edge scrapes clean the mind,
Re-tunes the soul, clears recollections, the self is wiped in all directions.
Blank to what it cannot see, so forced to be what it must be.
The will submits, the world demands, shifting gravities force the hand,
As nature calls, the will commands,
To do this all again today, to hunt, to kill, to seek out prey.

Death, not glory, that is this story.
Fade to black, fade to black,
As before, I take it back.
No music there, and no respite, just howl the moon and sleep till noon,
As this will all be over soon.
Look up, look down, walk there, turn 'round,
Be still, then move, then pounce, then kill, then feed, don't weep, relax, then sleep
No more music, no more games,
All your days are all the same

Tuesday, November 26, 2013


I recently watched a youtube video of an 18 foot great white shark that was slowly circling an 18 foot fishing boat. It was a modern fishing boat, with all the fancy amenities required for sport fishing. It had radios, sonar, and a shiny chrome throttle that theoretically would speed one away from deadly predators.

The passengers leaned over the edge to get a closer look, and to marvel at the shark's arrival. "Why do you think he's circling the boat", on passenger asks. "How big is it", asks another. "What kind of shark is that", asks a third. Everyone is talking at the same time. Great interest ensued, and everyone was clearly excited.

Nobody said, "Let's get the fuck out of here".

There  they were, miles out in the ocean in an 18 foot piece of fiberglass, probably ¼ of an inch thick, and only 10 feet away from the deadliest predator on the planet. Yet they had no concern for their safety. Perhaps it was thrilling to be close to something so convincingly powerful. But in the end the shark was simply a special effect… it wasn't real… it was an tourist spectacle… something to relate back to memories of hapless animals existing subservient to humans… humans who protect themselves not with teeth, but with clever boats with shiny chrome handles.

But what happens when the motor won't start? What happens when the shiny chrome handle get's stuck? What happens when that ¼ inch of high-tech fiberglass hull somehow cracks, and the blue-green seawater… once so beautiful… starts to stream into around your feet, dark and cold then? What happens when the pit in your stomach arrives, and the adrenaline hits your bloodstream. Will you ask what the shark is doing there then?