November 20, 2002 12:00 am
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.
Posted by Jay Babcock
Categories: POETRY, Uncategorized
Tags:
Mobile Site | Full Site
Get a free blog at WordPress.com Theme: WordPress Mobile Edition by Alex King.