I hope it wasn’t torture reading that poem. I have a few similar pieces that I wrote many years ago–I had hoped to gather them all up, write a few new ones, and publish a book of whimsical and demented children’s poetry similar to Shel and Seuss. Hey, maybe one of these days.
I Was Alive
Can I believe
that what I see
and what I breathe
but projections of the psyche?
And is there wrong or right
or just axons and dendrites?
I wanted to file away everything
but when you open the drawer,
Except for one form, it reads:
“There was you, there was me,
we were standing there
on the street
some day of the week.”
I was alive.
Just wish for some way to prove that you are
Above is the poem translated into an acoustic song. I was most likely contemplating solipsism when I wrote this one.
I felt inspired to write this poem after reading an article about shark fin soup and the terrifying process involved in its creation. Considering the name, I’m not sure what else I expected. Perhaps a humane death for the unfortunate sharks involved? Their fate is something a little more sadistic.
It seems the delicacy’s main ingredient is sliced from the shark while the body is left to die, immobilized. I couldn’t really wrap my head around such a harrowing and painful end to life for a creature, and how a life can be reduced to a vessel simply housing a commodity.
The Fin Harvester
God can be frivolous at packaging sometimes.
For example, the shark’s fin—
Sea flesh in its finest form—
Has excess material below:
Some eyes, a mouth, a body—
What’s this for?
Or the rhino’s horn,
Zenith of smooth symmetry, sensually curved calcium
Carefully pinched at the tip,
Has a face attached, a belly, a tail—
Mere stowaways barnacled to the prize.
What are these growths that mock
Such sacred fruit?
If I should happen upon a forest
Of horn bushes
Or straight crops of fins,
I would know that the moral compass exists.
That there is right, and there is wrong.