Bull

Originally posted 4/3/2014.  

If you choose 
to remake yourself 
as a dead man, 
bull-boy,

when you have done yourself in,
whether you do it yourself
with a tool or weapon
or whether you do it yourself
with food or drug or antic mistake,
everyone will know it was you

and you will learn
(while you are newly disembodied 
but still able to hear everything 
they’re saying about you)
that your people
will get as angry as picadors
when a bull escapes 
its obvious fate. 
They will rage on about it
for a time,
wanting to stick that dead bull
till it bleeds anew. Bull-boy,
they’ll be really angry with you
at first

but after a time
you will be forgotten.

People prefer their bulls to live or die
by the hand of 
a matador
who stands and fights
with a bull who stands and fights.
No matter who wins 
the winner is loved,
no matter who dies fighting
the loser is loved.
He who does not die fighting 
is always forgotten,
win or lose.
Just another animal,
another meal,
another heap to be carted offstage
amid cheers.

Bull-boy, it’s time: 
time for that cape, 
that suit of arrogant and foolish lights;
those darts in your hide, 
the blood running down;
the lusty crowd calling for your charge.
Time for your best, or your worst.
Time to trample time underfoot,
to render it flat, to trap it
by crushing it forever 
under some body
that will never move again.