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The Author Is Dead

Juliano Zaffino - The Author Is Dead - Blog

Wonder & Awe

Juliano Zaffino

I wonder why the thought strikes me,

Not the usual sort of thing I’d think about.

Like a true lapsed Catholic, I see her now

As an apparition, the Virgin Mary herself,

Protector of the everyman, everywoman.

She’s a chicken dancing in an alcove

High above the ground, watching over us,

Lit red with a holy light, watching over us.

 

I wonder if anyone ever stops in their tracks

And thinks more or less the same thing

And drops to their knees to give thanks.

Drunk students maybe, pilgrims from the pub

As they journey in search of some sojourn

To adjourn the hunger or else to quell

The yearning of their churning stomachs.

I do not know them. I find an odd new

Horror in the picture of their prostration,

An echo of some frenzied ululation made

By the slayer of nations – I think of a line

From Joyce, an explosion both guttural and

Cynical, as I watch on in silent consternation.

 

I wonder if this is all a metaphor, a satire even,

Maybe, or a warning sign hanging above the

Restaurant sign that says DO NOT ENTER,

But in a more philosophical sense. I don’t

Recognise the street anymore, by the red

Light of a hundred chicken alcoves. Is this the

Moment of my next conversion? Not veganism,

That’s not the cross I’m seeing. So… do I become

The communist that my family called me

One drunken night? Am I that same vision,

Now overwhelmed by the capitalist pigs

Taking on their supreme form, capitalist chickens?

 

I wonder if they’ll peck my eyes out.

 

I wonder if it’s something else entirely.