.
.
Be
skeptical when you hear stories about derring-do.
Remember
the red herring story’s a red herring, too.
Someone
named Cobbett in England in 1805 bent
our ears
with the tale that by rubbing red herring scent
.
over
the trail in a hunt as a boy he’d distract all the dogs
from
the scent they were tracking: red herring stink fogs
the olfactory
sense in a canine’s prodigious capacity
to
pick up smell: but Cobbett’s claim had the veracity
.
of all
the bloody hell you’d told your brother you’d done
on
the weekend, the awful spectacular transgressive fun
with
which you were determined to shock: that you’d
kidnapped
a nun but you couldn’t reveal all the lewd
.
and astounding
particulars you had pursued after that
with
the sister: no, not with the virtuous cad Pastor Blatt
always
‘round, with his nose to the ground, seeking evil
to
fuel his next sermon in lurid detail and medieval
.
morality
for which he’d long been egregiously famed,
packing
in every illicit detail, with every perp named!
And
that’s when your brother said, “Look to the skies
at the
moon. Is it a red herring?” This scattered
your lies
.
into
chaos, somehow: strewn like confetti into the cold
emptiness
of your interior, your old assertions, once bold,
were
so feebly inferior you barely knew that the moon died
that
night. Nothing could be understood or identified
.
with
any proof, wrong or right. This shot through the dawn
of your
consciousness, gun through a roof: you were gone.
You now
knew eternal existence proceeds beyond breath.
Being
is nothing at all. It’s a lovely experience, death.
.
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