I often find myself conflicted about humans, about myself. This poem goes down that road of confusion and plunges into that nagging feeling that we are no more moral than any other creature, that what we call good is a mere rationalization of our exercise of power over other things.
We have become mad. Crazed. Deluded.
For centuries we got drunker and drunker as
we drank the priests’ and pastors’ wine,
salvation’s and special creation’s blood from the vine.
We climbed it, we practitioners of scientism, believing that
we – the human animal – that we – the dominant animal – that
we are owed a shining ascension with the sun blazing
behind our heads with antiphonal brass announcing,
“We have been granted a right by God!”
Witness the waste…more than any other creature possibly wish for.
We are, I’m pleased to say, no more moral
than the scouring ant feeding larvae in a scavenged hickory’s husk.
We are, I’m honored to say, no more just
than hornets defending their nest in the bough of a locust tree.
We are – I bow humbly to them – no more kind or respectful
than the lioness smelling zebra musk, wishing for blood stains in the savanna’s grass.
We all kill for a fucking percentage to feed our young.
We are slaves to what is, to our loins driving us to become progeny.
We, deserve the title of “it.”
Not “we.” Royal as
We birthed intelligent civilization, yet with such intelligence
we dance with ignorance and neglect as if they were our lovers.
We are so unlike those societies of ants, wasps, and lions for
we have birthed our own demise.