Hard Night

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206 words
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bronzeage
bronzeage
280 Followers

Hard day coming on.
Too much time last night
counting stars on my eyelids,
afraid to open my eyes
and admit I can't sleep because of you.
Thinking of the poor
proto-human who laid
in the grass under real stars
feeling the cold stone
grow in his chest for the blue eyed female
he would never see again.
The first human heartbreak,
before the benefit of science to explain
the cardiovascular system.
His large human brain knows
where it hurts, and why.
Two thousand generations later
I am no better than
my flint chipping cousin
who woke one day
to discover mating season
is now all year long and
the scent in the air
is now in his large human brain
and knows a life spent in pursuit of
food and a place to sleep,
was empty without something
warm to sleep with.
So, cousin and I both wake at dawn,
he with spear and pouch,
I with cell phone and wallet.
He stands on the river bank
looking at foot prints left
by the blue eyed girl.
I thumb the phone book,
trying to remember where you work.
The hunters move out,
tracking the tender prey
that makes all else we catch
worth having.

bronzeage
bronzeage
280 Followers
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5 Comments
legerdemerlegerdemerabout 9 years ago
Well now...

I love this one. Understated but powerful in its contrasting of past and present - less contrast and much more putting forth parallels - thoughtfully (weapons/cellphone & wallet). I don't mind the interweaving of poetry and prose, unlike 12 mentioned. It reads like poetry to me, and I can see myself in the position of both hunter and hunted.

fridayamfridayamalmost 13 years ago
It's a wonderful montage

of ancient and modern, slipping in and out of time. I felt there were a couple of places where you could still polish to the burnish your name deserves. A lovely, though-provoking piece.

bulltlrbulltlralmost 13 years ago
5

I like the build up of emotion and how it tapers off.... and the comparison between the narrator and the flint chipping cousin was great!

twelveoonetwelveoonealmost 13 years ago
Why

do I get the feeling I'm reading Desmond Morris? It reads halfway between prose and poetry, as if you weren't sure what direction to go in. As a read, it has some very good stuff, you always do, this one bears some rethinking. A5

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