Saturday, October 06, 2007

That old snakecharmer, the Sun...


...piped this serpent out of the ground, led it wavering onto the hot black asphalt, its undulations matching the undulations of the rising summery air. Its body too intact to have been crushed by a passing car. Rather, the red badge of spilled guts suggests a rock, or a whack with a stick. Still paying the price of that first supposed temptation, someone else's Original Sin.

Its body a calligraphy of meanderings and oxbows, a silky river, now stilled forever. Those two ophidian eyes -- your eyes, my eyes -- asleep in death, those bloody tracings of a last agony -- your blood, my blood. Even Cain, that murderer, received a mark that those who met him would not kill him.

That old snakecharmer, the Sun, piping us all into the unnaturally hot October air. We dance the old Darwinian dance of death. Not even beauty bestows reprieve.