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Aborted Fetal Pigs

October 30, 2009

What are these ideas
these thoughts
these dreams if not
simple delusion sent by an
unfeeling god to distract us from
our true goals and
ambitions?

Why should a man driving to
his wife’s funeral be compelled to
take a second glance at
the young woman on the corner, though
the guilt is instant and painful?

When we eschew obfuscation with
the best of intentions, to
reveal ourselves, our
true demons and lusts, our
want to be righteous and our
fear of being found
otherwise,
why do we see our dreams
laid out on the table, feet
pinned down and belly flayed
open like an aborted fetal pig in
biology lab?

If we examine and
poke and
prod and
document and
question and
reference and
notate and
compare and
contrast – at what point
do we lose sight of the pig and
see only the meat?

Do we place the pieces
in their jars, label them
in Latin and clean up
our station so that no one knows
what was done there, or
do we stitch little Wilbur up,
make him one again, and
swallow him whole,
back into our soul,
to gestate and to one day
be born
fully formed as
the dream we once
relished?

Which is better to
obtain – the knowledge of
the detail or the
color of a sunset
sky?

The discrete and concrete or
the esoteric sensations?

I think I’ll eat my fetal pig and
see what becomes of me – so ignorance and
hunger will be well separated and

my dreams

will have time
to ripen.

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