the New Pantagruel

Baby Born with Antlers

Might we assume that he is a he?
Perhaps not. That the buck shining
in our head lamps is antlered
may be a fact of our peculiar place
not an absolute of nature.

We may, however, assume the mother bore
her child in pain. Look at those things!
Eight points, a rack for Boone and Crockett.
Let’s hope the antlers were soft
and malleable, floating like golden locks
during the passage down the dark canal,
only hardening at the shock of air.
Or perhaps the birth was breech.
Either way, we may assume the child
cried at the slap of birth. There’s nothing
new in that, nothing to report. But did
the mother cry? What did she think
when the midwife placed the child,
wet and wriggling in her arms?
did she scream, blurt out, “Monster!”
and push the double-natured thing away?

I think not. I think she recognized
her image in its flesh and loved him,
though she’d no warning of how,
when she nursed, she’d have to guard
her eyes from the sudden lifting
of his head. I think, when she first
held him tenderly exploring his small
body, her hand touched a tiny hoof–
a baby born with antlers
would have, at least, two hooves–
and she thought, almost absently,
that she would purchase him a flute.

Real Life Cat Woman Found in the Ozarks and She’s Looking for Love

She’s down and dirty in a lace bikini.
Where she found it is anybody’s guess
unless she tore it from a budding rival
walking unsuspecting hand in hand
with some dull partner in the woods.

Don’t think on that. Consider this:
It does nothing flattering for her tail.
Though for the feline litheness of her thighs,
it does all a lusting voyeur could desire.
Her whiskers, dark and thick as a mustache,
twitch with eagerness. Her fingers, reaching out
to knead a lover, are clawed to tear.
Her lips curl back revealing saber teeth. No one
would call her smile becoming or say
how kittenish she looks. Nor would a gentleman
invite her long body to coil into a purring
pile of fur upon an unprotected lap.
She is danger daring the tame to play.

Think with what ferity she will meet her lover.

Think what fierce offspring might suckle safely
at her breast. Could any child nursed
on that wildness grow to find a place
in any world you want to know?

Think carefully. Some rank infusion—
In wildness is the preservation of the world—
might be the needed shot, the Yes humanity
has feared to speak to every other
calling from the brink. Are you the one?
Will you be her mate

Smartest Ape in the World Goes to College

Knowing the admissions department was by law
committed to a policy of nondiscrimination,
he applied. His test scores were excellent
and no campus visit was required. In reply
to the question, “What do you expect to gain
from a liberal arts education?” he wrote,
“It is my goal to become fully human.”
His ambition led, of course, to admission
in an honors section. Orientation caused him fear–
he wasn’t sure how to dress, and housing
worried him–he couldn’t decide if coed
or single sex was best. He went with coed,
figuring life in the presence of women
might be uplifting. On-line
registration allowed him to avoid
actually meeting with his advisor,
though he felt the exchange of e-mails
valuable and enlightening. Concerned that
classmates and professors might find
his vocalizations awkward, he chose
large lectures over the intimacy
of smaller classes. But he could not
hide. He moved with an animal grace
that attracted women. Even his speech,
though slow and often withheld, worked
against him, his reticence projecting
a deep vulnerability and awakening
needs he meant to rise above.
He received many invitations. Shyly
he made excuses. He invented a girl
at home and retreated to his books.
He studied hard, played no sports,
and told no tales of conquest or
betrayal. Men thought him a bore.

For many months he was happy,
undisturbed in his belief
he could, by thought, add cubits
to his stature. He read Thoreau:
I know of no more encouraging
fact than the unquestioned ability
of man to elevate his life
by a conscious endeavor.

Then a darker unsung poet
troubled his upward dream
of mobility. Descent with
modification suggested all
was chance. To be human marked no
final elevation, no end
achieved. Still the inward cry
of aspiration kept his soul
in motion. If Thoreau had found
within himself a half-starved hound,
a pilgrim saint and learned
to reverence both, he too could be
a husband of the wild and walk
at peace in the sun-bright
wilderness of his division.

One day in Spring, invited by
a sprightly girl to picnic
in the college woods, he took his
chance in hand. Beneath the trees
they touched a wisdom not at all
provincial. The baying of the hound,
once lost, returned to town. The saint
inscribed a poem in the bark.