Desktop - Turitella agate fossil

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Every Virus Is Sacred!

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Over at C&L, the idea of "made in God's image" came up, and I wrote this comment:




What amuses me is the assumption made that when (according to the bible) the Elohim said "Let us make humans in our own image", it never seemed to occur to any humans that they might have said that about EVERY OTHER SPECIES ON EARTH.

"Let's make bacteria in our own image." "Cool!" "They'll populate the whole planet!"

"Let's make some...I don't know. What should we make?" "Hey, Rkljfkeu, how about we make something that looks like you?" "Okay! What'll we call it?" "How 'bout...'lion'?" "Interesting name. Okay! Make sure it eats meat, though. Those plant things taste awful."

"I know, let's make some CROCODILES!!!" "What the fuck are crocodiles?" "I don't know, but I like the name!" "They can look like Fiiiddlrewq!"

And every time they made something new, they petted it and chucked it under the chin, and told it that they had made it in their own image. And those things - bacteria, lions, crocodiles, pigeons, pterodactyls, amoebas, harp seals, vampire frogs, etc. - ALL think THEY are the image of the gods, and everything else is just an afterthought, or created to make THEIR world look all nice and alive.

That never seems to occur to anybody. I wonder why?



Thought that might amuse all of you. :)
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Predators

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I wrote this years ago in response to a poem an online friend wrote. Thought folks here might get a kick out of it.



Predators


and what are men but smooth jaguars
lying furled and sated over the corpses they make of us
as we sweetly, sweetly bleed
our lives running in calm rivulets
over claws nestled closely in our flesh?

what are they but great delicious bears
licking their muzzles clean of the honey
they’ve stolen from our guarded hives?

when do they not kill us,
when do they not tear us to shreds
obliterate us
and send our souls reeling into
that red red fate
where we are nothing
if not willing to go?

how comes such sweet murder encased
within those sculptures of flesh
lines and planes and
smells of yeasty bread
rising to the heat of our eager ovens
and the sparkle of eyes and teeth and
rough demanding hands
all supple and soft to our cries?

why do we spread ourselves so
open upon the altar
to their sacrificial knives
happily begging to die
screaming our deaths in
fast sulphurious joy
crying out to whatever god
has ears to hear that
happy slaughter
the death that comes only
in life?

what are men but priestly panthers
hypnotic and hidden in the wild landscape
amber eyes glowing over limbs
hotly folded
rumbling deep their lava song
and eventually asleep
above the kill?
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