Category: Poetry

Saturday is our day of fun at the zoo this week. My wife is so excited to see the orangutans and try to talk to them and see if they can make sign language back. She tried to learn American sign language, but only made it past the alphabet and some basic vocabulary. I don’t even think that any of these orangutans are going to know sign language anyway. Wasn’t it just a really special one who could actually communicate using it? It probably took years and years of training from the zoo staff, or whoever taught the animal, and in the end it probably had a tiny little vocabulary anyway, nothing to write home about.

I mean, the damn monkey can’t even write, and it sure as hell doesn’t know where its home used to be anyway, now does it? It’s not like its mommy orangutan stands by the shoreline in Sumatra or wherever they’re from, hoping that her baby will return to her some day. I mean, there’s probably an instinct like that, but there’s no way that she’d be able to pause in her life to entertain that thought. I mean, it’s basic survival in the wild, isn’t it? You can’t just go off daydreaming, or some puma will sneak up behind you and take a bite out of your kidney.

And even if you get away, that kidney hole will never get filled, because HELLO, no hospitals, so you’re limping around even though your legs are just fine. That’s how much your lack of a kidney truly hurts when you’re trying to get to the nearest place to find a proper dying spot where the vultures can’t get at you, because who likes the thought of having their rotting carcass get picked at out of sheer carelessness for not having hidden themselves before they died? I mean, it’s not like you’ll be looking down at your sorry body after you’re dead anyway, you’ll be too busy knowing about absolutely everything there is to know.

But honestly, it would be ridiculous to not at least give it a shot.

I once held a sentiment dear to my heart. I named it Pomona and gave it free reign. Pomona was quirky, but stayed in the house with a crippling fear of losing its balance in public and shaking too much while I ate my corned beef. So I let my dear sentiment stay in while I roamed; Pomona was grateful and gave me more trust while lying in bed and burning the toast. When the house burned down, Pomona escaped and called 911, then sat on the curb while I got the good news.

Pomona was gone when I rushed to the spot where my house used to be. I wasn’t surprised. I called my ex-wife and I moved in with her. I swallowed my pride and I waited in vain for my poor lost Pomona to find me again. It didn’t. I got my insurance check and boarded a flight to New Zealand, to hide in my sorrowful, uprooted life and wait for new sentiments to fix my depression. They didn’t.

In the midst of the middle with a stone in my bed, absolutely nothing had fallen my way. I befell a certain curtain chaser with a penchant for sodium pentathol and a mincemeat pie methodology on his way to uncharted technology. I asked him: “Hello, where are you going so fast?” and I met his response, a fist to the gut. It stung for two days as I wallowed and cried, just wondering why a man would cause a stranger such pain. I meditated, prayed and fasted for days, just trying to see where that man’s passion lay. Then I stood by my doorframe, abstaining from nourishment until I knew for sure that this man would come back. Thankfully for my health, he was there in ten minutes, as though he’d known I was waiting for some reason. I asked him again: “Hello, where are you going so fast?” and I met his response, a fist to the very edge of my gut’s personal space, then quickly withdrawn. He had a smile on his face. He said: “You young men have too much curiosity. It could kill you if you don’t understand with whom you should not speak. You’re lucky I’m a conscientious fellow, and I teach you this lesson just to make you less yellow.” He then went on his way, as quick as before, and I yelled after him: “Did you mean to rhyme like that?” He stopped in his tracks and let out an audible laugh before continuing on his predetermined path.