about animal sex.
Not about having sex with animals, myself,
but them with each other—
a same species kind of thing.
I don’t fantasize;
I do have questions.
what are the risks?
Or, Jelly Fish;
how’s that work?
Or, Wood Peckers,
Do they flee from sex to religion,
or religion to sex?
Is there repentance?
What’s their flight response?
Their joy? Bliss?
Does an octopus have a clitoris
or multiple clitori?
Do they get bashful? Feel ashamed?
Even know they are having sex?
Or are they being had,
all programmed machine, instinct, beast?
I once saw a rooster
“engage” multiple hens
during just one conversation with its farmer
and I wondered
if he overheard our talk of slaughter and meat,
and the fear of inevitable death slipped in
a potent aphrodisiac.
I hear this works on humans.
Did the hens know they were screwed?
Cock never even made them breakfast.
All he did was approach, step
one clawed foot onto each of their feathered backs,
hold them down in the dirt,
and let out what was evolved into his being.
Was that rape?
What’s that say about intelligent design?
How’s that not like us? Animals.
How are we different?
Are animals conscious of survival or fitness?
Who is fit to survive?
I once knew a British Bulldog
who mated with a Yorkshire Terrier.
Their litter of one puppy didn’t live more than
three months—DNA too confused to support
its manifestation. This unstable compound somehow
made it out of the womb laboratory
into our world for a moment.
And I wondered,
have we lost touch
with the deep knowing that guides us to fitting mates?
Was this one born for love?
What does knowing mean?
Maybe animals can tell me
why I chase love in an ambulance.
Why is my loving bulimic?
Such large mouth, hungry stomach,
can’t hold anything down?
Why am I always running
from sex that can be so pleasurable:
electric endorphin synapse explosion,
chemical pressure geyser fire
in our soft tissue Tantien places?
Why is it a gateway to a cliff—
where some enjoy diving
but others just plummet?
Makes me wonder about the animals, you know?
Fuzzy little creatures roaming about
eating, making homes,
and having fuzzy-little sex,
or big-roaring sex,
or awkward-sized-middle sex.
Why can’t it just be funny?
Must we control it? Legislative control it?
When the animals just keep on being,
living, making more animals.
Why risk it?
Why reject it?
Why pretend all the answers aren’t encoded in genetic ink
when there is no deliberating our very real free will—
we, the sole species able to exercise empathy and communicate consent,
able to learn from the joys and pains of past generations.
When we can choose.
We can choose.
Do you ever feel
like maybe more
than an animal?