Deer in the Headlights, A Waltz

[Lightning Rod]

Deer in the Headlights, A Waltz

before the internet
I couldn't spell abattoir
but I knew what it meant

it's the bloody gears of
a grinding machine
slow sage indifference, fears

the calendar grinds
sinew and muscle alike,
yesterday, the bones of joy

If there is no comfort in the moment
if Now is not the end of it
where is there? but sleep or death?

all my daft cunning
makes rapture glow purple at the edge
like a candle behind a caladium leaf

you know something is there flickering and bright
just behind, just beyond
a fawn sips the air and knows

smells the wolf, the dog, the hunter
smells anticipation and dreams of the kill
the fawn is a tender, loaded spring

the facts are olfactory
close your eyes
in ten minutes this will be over

still we wonder why the fawn trembles?
she stands within a ring
a circle of opportunity

death hides behind every blade
and only needs to win once
while she must conquer every moment

If you've ever truly feared or truly loved
you'll know which is the sweeter, and also
which is the stronger.

the fawns leg is thinner than a ballerina
she is tender tendons dancing on fear
can you imagine how ALIVE she is?

No internet for deer, they can't google venison
fear makes wild meat taste wild
better to kill them in their sleep or during sex

There is no quick death for dreams
so we don't love the deer, we like her
and then the deer gets eaten, it's her job

[Doreen Peri]

I donno why but I found this terrifying. Scared the daylights outa me.

What images!

Glad to see you back online.
I thought you'd been murdered or something.

Happy New Year.

[dadio]

There is more going on here in the poem than the theme appears to show. The undercurrent creeps up on you and takes you down. Great.

[Lightning Rod]

thanks doreen and dadio
yes, this was supposed to terrify

I've always found waltzes to be frightening

[joel]

Score one for the vegetarians! But of course that's not the point.

I read an article in Runner's Magazine (I'm not a runner) about how hard it is to be someone who never excercises...because while it's easy to be a runner who often slacks off, it's terribly more difficult to be a statue who never moves. Every step is a failure to a statue, but the weeks that go on in between trips to the gym are simply pauses for the runner...because movement is part of what we are. But then you raise the question of penultimate stillness (penultimate, to me, because I cling to hope in resurrection) brought on by death--which only has to win that one battle in order to enjoy its long inaugural bash.

I've always loved your thinking and.

[Lightning Rod]

as usual, joel, you have gone straight to the heart of the poem. Those lines about death only needing to win once are the heart of the poem.

It is a cruel truth that death or negativity only needs to triumph one time and the game is over. This is why the immense trust that the universe has for itself is so amazing. The solutions we use to beat the old bastard must be invented daily. I find this to be one of the most sovereignly amazing things about human beings, their endless inventiveness, We can also end the game by re-inventing it.

[joel]

It is a cruel truth that death
or negativity
only needs to triumph one time
and the game is over.

This is why the immense trust that the universe has for itself is so amazing.
The solutions we use
to beat the old bastard
must be invented daily.

I find this to be one of the most sovereignly amazing things
about human beings,
their endless inventiveness,
We can also end the game by re-inventing it.

'nuff said.

[saw]

if you're lucky life is a waltz towards the inevitable, not a march....

got a strong image of the candle behind the caladium leaf ( 8 years in the Fla. Keys )......a nice metaphor for the message there, mysterious glowing purple rapture......

[stilltrucking]

constantine Posted: Sat Mar 13, 2010 12:09 pm

red fawn

we lost something when we walked away
an innocence
a certain animal grace
and for all our approximations
our promethean powers
the gamut that runs from page to canvas
we are outdone
by the rooster's hallelujah
and the wolves baying at the moon

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