Why
did the Chicken Cross the Road?
Consider the chicken. It does not long for the freedom of
the pasture. The coop its world complete. The chicken does not seek grain for
grain is delivered by human hand and won with blood speckled beak. Happiness extraneous to survival the
chicken is satisfied with the coop and the grain and the expulsion of eggs.
Each egg signifying the survival of the line. Each chicken a conqueror. Each
egg a soldier. The hand that brings the grain takes the eggs. The wheel upon
which no chicken heart breaks. The god of the chicken is not the fair haired
savoir to whom the wounded and bleeding cry out in churning sands under the
blazing red sun but instead the god that answers these cries. The old god of
the Israelites who does not pretend that empires can be built on any foundation
other than bone. The chicken crosses the road but does not know the road. The chicken
unaware of its crossing.
When is a door a jar?
Each door the
corpse of the tree each corpse a monument. Felled and shaped by man to demark
boundaries signifying perseverance. This within is mine. The light behind the
door defies the dark. The knock comes at midnight. Who is there. No answer. Who
is there. The night itself rapping. The
night seeks the light within and does not respect perseverance. Who is there.
Who is there. Turning of the knob. Leave me. Leave my door. Who is there. The light
within does not illuminate the night the night steals the light away. The door
is open.
What’s black and white and
red all over?
The
appaloosa picks its way between saguaros cautious less the spines tear its
flesh or catch its eyes and blind it. Upon its back the remains of the rider
skull split and baked black. Dead these three long days. Cracks in the leather
saddle filled with dried blood. The appaloosas flanks streaked red lines that
curve around its belly. Wait no this one is just a newspaper isnt it. Ive heard
this one before.
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