this morning
the body of a goat
was dumped
on the sidewalk
in the middle
of Beverly Hills.
i almost tripped over
the head
without even noticing
as i crossed the street
towards my attorney's
offices.
then i looked down.
then i saw its slit throat,
and eyes failing to stare out.
was this real?
a 150 lb. dead goat
dead on the sidewalk
in dead beverly hills
with its fresh blood
running uselessly
down the dead sidewalk?
me,
the only one walking,
of course,
i convinced myself
it couldn't be real,
that i was lucid dreaming,
that i wanted to see this goat,
that this goat
was connected to some
repressed primal longing for
sacrificial blood
that went
back generations and generations,
and that a civilized human being
trying to make a go of it
in the mechanized
western world of the 21st century
could not and should not
ever understand this impulse,
(or it was just way too early in the morning
to trust my mind.)
i would have gotten
away with this line of reasoning
except for the two cop cars
that suddenly rolled up on the sidewalk,
sirens blaring,
doors banging open,
officers fanning out
in strategic formation,
shouting at me
as if i were a thousand angry rioters,
"KEEP MOVING!"
so i did,
because that's what we
(are trained to)
do best here
every day
anyway.
