A Fable For Our Times.
Pity the wolverines of Winter. Notice how
they engage in bruising marathons of bird watching,
immerse themselves in a witches brew of resentment,
commit confusing acts of sadistic charity
while keeping up a running tab of ruin.
Only through vigorous effort do they evade death
by bowling balls and croquet mallets.
Angered by a relentless parade of stupidity,
they seek solidarity with the superfluous.
and attempt to arrange a tenuous détente with gravity.
They bask in the carcinogenic glow of the Zeitgeist.
Like sternly orgasmic sociopaths, they wave
canceled electric bills trying desperately to surrender,
even while swilling human blood with Fundamentalist fury.
They capitulate to the immediacy of delusions,
search for the stasis of quantum coherence,
endure the torture of excessively extreme entropy,
undergo extreme bouts of throbbing sexual intensity
while listening to Phillip Glass backwards at half-speed.
They howl at the lost last moon that will not guide them.
They call to mind everything that is easily forgotten.
They are caught in the ravenous hunger of their being.
They are very much as we are: snagged by reality,
the sticky status quo, the empty futility of change.
Oh, pity the woeful wolverines of Winter.