Unnatural Selections: A Meditation upon Witnessing a Bullfrog Fucking a Rock

by Jim Dodge

Amalgam of electric jelly,
constellated neural knots
in the briny binary soup,

as surely as stimulus prods
response

brains are made to choose.

And through a major error
in pattern recognition

or a significant cognitive
fault,

the bullfrogs brain has
selected

a two-pound rock

as the object of his rampant
affection,

a rock (to my admittedly
mammalian eye)

that neither resembles

nor even vaguely suggests

the female of his species.

He does seem to be enjoying
himself

in a blunted sort of way,

but since the rock so obviously
remains unmoved

one suspects it’s not the
blending of sweet oblivions

that fuels his persistence,

but a serious kink in a
feedback loop–

or perhaps just kinkiness
in general.

The less compassionate might
even call him

the quintessentially insensitive
male.

Assuming a pan-species gender
bond

and a common fret,

I advise my amphibious pal,

“Hey, I don’t think she’s
playing hard to get.

That’s the literal case
you’re up against, Jack–

true story, buddy; stone
fact.

And I’d be fraternally remiss
if I didn’t share

my deep and eminently reasonable
doubt

that she’ll be worn down

however long and spectacular
the ardor.”

Ignoring my counsel

as completely as he has
my presence,

the bullfrog continues his
fruitless assault

with that brain-locked commitment
to folly

which invariably accompanies

dumb, bug-eyed lust.

But, in fairness,

whose brain hasn’t shorted
out in a slosh of hormones

or, igniting like a shattered
jug of gas,

fireballed into a howling
maelstrom

where a rock indeed might
seem a port?

One can only conclude

that such impelling concupiscence

serves as a species’ life-insurance,

sort of a procreative override

of any decision requiring
thought,

thought being notoriously
prey to thinking,

and the more one thinks
about thinking

the thinkier it gets.

Therefore, though the brain
is made to choose,

its very existence ultimately
depends

on the generative supremacy
of brainless desire–

for with all respect to
Monsieur Descartes

you am before you can think
you are.

Dirt-drive compulsions riding
powerful desires

render any choice moot,
along with

reason, morality, taste,
manners,

and all those other jars
of glitter

we pour on the sticky and
raw.

The hard truth is we never
chose to choose:

not the brains we use to
pick

between competing explanations
for our sexual mess

nor these hearts we’ve burdened
with our blunders

in the name of love.

Do whatever we decide we
will,

the choice isn’t free;

we live at the mercy of
more pressing needs.

Thus, urges urgently surging,

we mount a few rocks by
mistake.

A bit more embarrassing
than most of our foolishness, true–

but so what?

The power of the imperative

coupled with the law of
averages

virtually guarantees enough
will get it right

to make more brains to be
made up

about exactly what steps
to take

toward what we think we
need to do

on this stony journey between
delusion and mirage–

when to move, where to hide
our dreams–

a journey where we finally
learn

freedom is not a choice

a brain is free to choose.

Fortunately, my warty friend,

the soul is built to cruise.