On Bourbon Street the modern pickaninnies
tap dance, but sullenly; the strip joints hawk
that quickly spoiled crop, flesh, night after night,
and bad rock outshouts jazz's gracious ghost.
JENNIFER MICHAEL HECHT
Gods and Animals
Call it solitude. Only Gods and animals,
Aristotle said, can live alone. Nietzsche chided:
Also philosophers, who are a bit of each. Of course,
these days you root around a lot, bestial from the lack
of being seen. You look out of the windows
with wide, immortal eyes. But this is still
humanity, I think. Why let it end? Loneliness
for one, but what is that: The lack of a mood
swung at you; the lack of a common tongue?
Six of one. The Works Cited list is often better
than the text. Oh yes, the bliss of a common
fate. Yet what is fate nowadays, but familial
role: that from which one tries to break away,
and fails. Why bring in players and recreate it all at home?
The oracle sends you into therapy in hope you might
avoid the written word. But how far do you really think
you're getting? You animal. You god. Arrange
your bedding. The police are at the door.
Put away your pornographic coasters;
let their drinks make condensation rings.
So these are the decisions you are making?
The Gods sleep all day. The animal eats
anything, the animal sleeps all day, emerging
in the night. Aristotle also sleeps all day,
