October 27, 2003

  • Imagine you have a pet and it gets loose and runs into a warehouse nearby, and you see it and go after it, but they (warehouse management) won’t let you in to search the warehouse, what do you do?


     


    My pet is the lower form of life that I, from time to time, tend to exhibit.  Though perhaps seen as dangerous, it is really endangered when it gets wild, loose, and beyond overview.


     


    The warehouse is huge, exciting, and forbidden.  I hear voices calling me out, but I imagine that amongst the stacks of various assortments or down the aisles of unexperienced provisions there awaits all the world has forever cheated me of, things that I feel it now owes to me.  So I explore.  This world seems mine—all mine.  And I’m of a mind to abhor any interference and compel all desired compliance, if need be.


     


    Yet the voices ‘out there’ still call and become shrill.  “Here”, they clamor, “come out”.  As much a warning as a loving plea, this “out” is my directional beacon, the only sign, symbol, clue left in that world that can save me.  Save me?  From what?  From the gnawing toxins growing within.  From the gorging that will become self-consuming and that’s about to begin.  From the assembled hostile inorganics that spy my organics and want to settle the score.  Oh what a poor little pet I’ve become, lost in a world that’s inimical to love and tendering, that’s devoid of petting, and views my blood as a colorful substance for letting.  For the warehouse is actually a slaughterhouse.  And all that which I behold, delicious dangling corpses, I shall become, if I stay for long.


     


    “ .o..u..t !  ”  And that’s the final beckon from afar.

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