Oh Rage, My Sweet
3/10/01
So why is the butterfly so nervous?
Jerky wings, erratic flight,
and a microscopic scowl
etched above a brow
too tiny to be taken seriously.
And all the we haves
and I knows,
and the we understands
and I sees. . .
All create this heat beyond any optimal comfort range
For your typical Butterfly having a good time being free
In the daytime sun.
So he gets confused,
Because he wants and he doesn’t know.
And he sees but dimly.
And he understands that his understanding is limited
So it builds. . . At first,
Just a little quesy feeling there in the pit of his stomach
Easily dismissed in the rush to meet his toothbrush
or his razor
or his wife’s lips
briefly encountered on his way out the door to meet the day.
On the drive in the funny feeling grows as he becomes addled by the Honda with the Oriental lady at the wheel driving only thirty miles per hour and the speed limit is fifty and he’s late. And the recurring memory of the missed job opportunity that backfired when the engineer with the MBA and the trim athletic build undercut his new promotional idea. And now he’s not sure if he even has a job to go to. And then the. . . "Aw, fuck this," he shouts as he gestures obcenely in his mind toward the east and toward all inferior beings born with the epicanthal fold he’s learned to call, ‘slanty eyed.’
So just before his freeway exit he lays down the Colt he’d planned to use on the redneck in the pickup truck who cut in front of him and is amazed at the sense of calm that descends on him as his attention is captured by the soft yellow splat of nervous Butterfly viscera trickling ever so slowly down his newly washed windshield.
Eaglecrow
