My brother and I explored a ravine in our younger years. A wooded labyrinth where the auburn mist of fallen leaves covered the floor like a Burmese tiger pit.
My brother and I discovered a lake, which became a creek, which became a swamp. I must've found something exciting, because I began sprinting homeward in a juvenile fervor. Penetrating the leafy shroud with my eager feet. Unaware of traps set subtly for those tramping through the wilderness.
A nail, I stepped on a nail in my recklessness. My tennis shoe armor proved futile against the steel weaponry. Completely exposing my vulnerable sole, the spiked interloper sank its lone fang into me. The pain shot through my foot until ambulatory abilities all but vanished.
I didn't watch where I was stepping and landed on an inadvertent weapon. I should've known the pollution of man would stab me in my outstretched hand.
A lesson was learned about paranoia and why it exists. Even if I watch where I'm going, polluters will slit my wrists until the findings of the swamp are forgotten in favor of scars.
what you see is not always what you get, like a tiger scared by a house cat. we sometimes forget that appearances can be deceiving just like we’re trained to master the act of concealing the emotions that don’t serve our audience in a zoo they all want to see a tiger at its finest performance no one knows the struggles of the tiger since no eye sees behind the curtain where life seems to be a little harsher.
I had went to visit some friends some acquaintances these people i used to know I was a ghost in my hometown, where no one used my given name. they brought me in through a screen door and sat me down in the kitchen. their voices were like underwater sounds they told me to be still while he said hello. I looked down a flight of basement stairs where bathed in a blue light like Chopin’s no. 19 in E minor sat a tiger burning bright. up the stairs it bounded forth in muted strides to the floor it pinned me under protest in cemetery stillness it said hello. the kitchen was an autoclave I never asked for help.
my hometown calls to me in my sleep like an indian death wail on a buffalo robe so my eyes sink back into the firmament. bathing in the predawn light my bones are an old horse I ride, I score one for the body then I get onto a plane then I score one for the body and I get onto a plane then i score one for the body as it lays dying without complaint. kneeling before the Holy Cross by the roadside I take note of really just how much room there is on the bed beside me strange bedfellows are I and the space I’ve been given. there is a queen sized outer darkness within my twin sized gestures of self control. the dusk is day now and the moon is the sun and my hometown calls to me like Jericho’s Trumpet sounding from inside the Pale.
in my hometown I am a pilgrim I saunter towards the seaboard where the docks hold greek columns that soar into the air like the elephant’s legs in Salvador Dali’s “The Temptation of St. Anthony”. nostalgia burns my throat like acids and bases and the columns lead up to nowhere and this place isn’t how i remember it beyond the Pale. limping with thin soles dragging a dull hypothalamus like a dead mule chained to my ankle we would sit and watch our forefathers stare at the static on the TV from their arm chairs in the dark. we would offer them coffee and ask how their day was and they would tell us that sometimes they feel like a lone alley cat. It’s like my buddy's roommate when I would go to visit; always alone inside his room. sometimes I would see him around town and say hello and notice his face and see that he was still alone inside his room.
well, I have skin in the game and I have a reputation and i’m attached to my non-attachment. sometimes a subtle brand of disgust creeps in to replace my avarice and sometimes I starve to death holding a long handled spoon seated at Caligula’s table. sometimes i can’t tell their maidenhood from their madness so i hoard one for the body. sometimes i remember the way bees will talk to each other by dancing and how old men will tell you they’re afraid to die. Sometimes I hand a *** a 20 and weep as I watch him fold it into an origami crane.
while I was in town I looked up my former landlord I held a fondness for the times when they didn’t use my given name. I wanted to see my old room and I had kept a raven back then and he assured me it was still around. the room was now and attic and was much bigger than I had held it in my memory, vast almost. I ask the dust as it was thick upon the floor boards and something felt abandoned in the air. the roof was in disrepair and one whole side was nearly completely gone. tranquil ribbons of cirrus clouds stood in the sky through the roof like a child’s drawing. “Is it like you remember?”, he asked. “Way over in the corner there was a couch my brother would sometimes sit in” I replied. I asked after my raven and he pointed to the part of the roof that still was. from the shadows came a bird song like an irish low whistle from above the Pale. “That doesn’t sound like him”, I said (more to myself than to my host), “that’s an owl or something.”
Roy Horn always favored big cats. He put them in all of his acts. But then Manticore, who thought Roy was a bore, said “Enough” and then Roy was just snacks.
Sorry, I think making wild animals do tricks is not entertainment. Someone who witnessed the scene was interviewed on tv and said that Horn tried to get the tiger to do something, the tiger misunderstood, Roy reprimanded it and "the tiger said "Enough of this." It was the best tv quote ever.
Fact is stranger than fiction. Quentin sits for days trying to think of a plot, As dazed and twisted as his. And should the Tiger King take Quentin under his wing, I am sure that Quentin's mouth will be searching for teeth. (but then again, don't you think Quentin is a tad bit old?) Benevolent monarch, with peasants made of fur. Boldy he strays upon a kingdom never his. And the peasants, They have no choice Have no voice, Nothing but the strength to look the Tiger King's Advisor in the eye as they say "Goodbye".
And good old Carole Baskin watches. From a pedestal of brie and champagne: Money money money! Shower it. Just not on the tigers. No money for the peasants. No money for the ******.
does GOD adore the Tyger while it’s ripping ur lamb apart?
does GOD applaud the Plague while it’s eating u à la carte?
does GOD admire ur brains while ur praying IT has a heart?
does GOD endorse the Bible you blue-lighted at k-mart?
NOTES: In the segmented title “evol” is “love” spelled backwards. The title questions whether you have been shunned by a "God of love" or evolution. William Blake’s famous poem “The Tyger” questions the nature of a Creator who brings lambs and tigers into the same world. Keywords/Tags: god, love, evolution, coronavirus, plague, tyger, tiger, lamb, predator, prey, brains, heart, bible, K-Mart, blue light special