Walk on the wild side
across the unpaved
alley where the bulbs
in the street lights
have long since burnt out.
Climb the fence clearly
marked No Trespassing!
Take aim at the sacred
cows, tip them over in
night’s pastures.
Skirt civilization’s
political boundaries,
imaginary lines etched
on two dimensional
world renderings.
Venture too close to the
edges, and if you’re lucky
you might fall into
the realm of the
heroically unsalvagable.
I love this all, with extra love for the “heroically unsalvagable” part.
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Thank you! I have this image of myself in those terms. But I’m so the opposite!
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This cow looks so familiar.
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She’s beautiful.
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Yup she is
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Love this one! I’m a big fan of skirting the political boundaries.
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Thank you!
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The red fabric on the sacred horn has a design called Bandhini, I watched it being made when I worked in India. I tipped a cow once many a night years ago. I sat in traffic in New Delhi, as a boy escorted two cows and a goat across six unruly rows of traffic. Your poem resonates as I skirt the politics facing us and flashes magical memories before my minds eye. Thank you.
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Oh my! Thank you for sharing!
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Pssst… you shared first, it only seemed polite. 😇
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I loved your take on this.
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