Another airport, another bull to be slaughtered.
I had changed greatly in a personal decade
but little in eleven thousand years.
When I saw bulls I saw red and felt a kinship
with necessity. I felt very relaxed knowing
the world was overflowing with procedure, even in
its younger phase. One gave one thing to get
in turn another. Seeing red was like seeing
the future, the sliding of the blade, and I felt
much closer to God. Sunny times, old Memory.
Mithra didn’t know shit from clay.
I liked my own communion in the desert:
felt I was onto something, and that if I just
concentrated hard enough, I could invent
a tradition of stillness. The hummingbird makes the hum.
But every time I travelled I’d see, many and fierce
and snorting, bulls I knew no one else could see,
so unnerving in their love of fate. One cornered me
in the Men’s Room. You must change your life,
indeed. I buried him later, high in a tree.
Leave a Reply