Human History

Some say Time is a river
and some say an Indian giver.
Some say it is a loop
circling around like a hoop,
whereas others attempt to spoil it
as something spiraling within a toilet.
But Time, you see, is a cage
and our history is a coprophage.
Iconographically, it is a sow
born and bred in the Now;
so myopic that it is almost blind,
seeing from the front as it does from behind,
rolling around in its confining cage,
claustrophobic unto a rage,
its nose ring preventing it from digging
to escape the spiral-barbed rigging.
It sees each wall as if for the first time,
and despite the familiar rust, dirt and grime,
and the bloodstains and the tattered skin,
it rams the fanged walls of its prison.
Afterwards, while wounded and bleeding
it comforts itself with frenzied feeding
upon its own free-flowing blood
as it trickles upon the filth and mud.
Perhaps it is disgusting behavior,
but there is no deliverance, no savior
to open that cage and let us out
as we snort and squeal and seek with our snout.
The sow is scarred
and barred,
wallowing
and swallowing,
we are that sow—
stuck in the Now.
It is no mystery,
our history.
It is a boar,
and nothing more.
Even when birthing a farrow,
we are confined by the narrow.
Even when it eats its own shit
we are the same as it.

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