mouth of a cave

Some men follow lighthouses.

I am not a sailor.

Sailors are dirty mermaids, with hairy legs and matted hair. Even in their quietest hour, they are forced to listen to the thud of water clashing against the hull; of pelicans diving into salty waves; of sirens tens of thousands of miles away, singing their songs. Always going somewhere, like a snail on a road, off to some speck on the orangeish horizon. How grimy the sea-goers must be. How perverse... to be surrounded by water, an be so unclean, sweaty, smelling of sex without arousal.

Some men, they lose themselves out at sea.

I will never allow myself to be a sailor,

and my children, too.

I am more of a caveman.

Not like my ancestors were. I don't build fires an I certainly know how to talk n sit up straight. This isn't about history and it never was, never will be. What's then was then. But they had the right ideas. I always had the feeling that man belonged in caves.

We'll get to woman at some point. They're there, in the forest, somewhere,

But for now I stand rootless.

An though it's damp an dark I can still find my way

(it helps that there's a glow comin from somewhere),

Trippin over roots, stumbling into raspberry bushes, looking only dead ahead,

until I stand in awe at the mouth of a cave.

Some men, they make pilgrimages.

I will not pretend that I'm not a pilgrim.

I lower myself to my knees, waiting for something, waiting for anything. And then, it did come. A great urge built up inside of me and erupted, compelling me to move forward, to touch! the cave.

I started with the edges. Those soft, voluptuous edges, full of color... with the ability to run dry at any given moment, and then pucker and starve, begging for treatment of any sort... yes, I ran my fingers over the gentle folds of the edges, noting every slight indentation, calculating any sensitive spots that might be prone to hostile intrusion. They are, as they have always seemed to be, virtually flawless. Seamless beyond compare. With an incredible amount of self-control, I closed my eyes, and took a step into the cave, leaving the luxurious edges behind. Under my breath,

Never give yourself over to the cave, completely.

Next, the razor sharp thorns that must protect the cave. I pricked my hand on the foremost ones, gleaming so boldly and bright. I made sure that my blood didn't stain them. They seemed so important— an they were, but how could I have known that without any of these things, the cave would've ceased to exist? Every piece is integral; including the pearly spikes so prominently lined together, like art at a museum. I walked slowly from work of art to work of art— admiring the attention to detail that the artist gave it, admiring their intent and the amount of work that went into it. Very impressive, I would think.

And then, the moist monster. The cave breathes. It's walls refuse to stand still, they retract and contract, in unpredictable fashion. They ooze liquid, so that the dewy floor of the cave grows dewier by the second; thick layers of grass in the late springtime. That floor, lives. That floor, writhes. That floor, is stronger than you. But despite its wetness, and its brawns, it is beautiful.

Nothing in the cave ceases to be beautiful.

Some men kill the cave.

And others, kiss it.