Liberties There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence

Every day putting a fresh spin on how he maintains that shit-eating grin despite his notoriously thin skin. The quagmire of what-might-have-been. Every day shouldering an invisible tray. Hello, hello. Olé, Olé. His musing on how best to waylay a hiker passing through a field of Galloways. Every day aiming to swat the single fly that keeps tying and untying a knot before taking another potshot. Rolling through the Krishna Valley like a juggernaut. Every day trying to err on the side of standing firm. Foursquare. The singlemindedness of a Berber about to take out a French Legionnaire. Every day surviving by dint of three of his four hooves being knapped flint. Hanging out the bloody bandage of his, hint hint, barber’s pole. His stick of peppermint. Every day his hoofprints in the sand-strewn park have enclosed so much in quotation marks. Not even Job or Abraham, hark hark, is a patch on our patriarch. Every day the holy show of leather dyed robin egg blue by Tiffany & Co. Areas strictly off-limits? Strictly no-go? The wilds of Connaught. The stockyards of Chicago. Every day rising at 5 am, determined to stem the flow of misinformation from the well at Zem-Zem. His dangle-straw from a crib in Bethlehem. Every day fighting shy of the possibility his eye is a shellac-gouge from an old hi-fi. His helmet appropriated from a samurai. Every day the mob threatening a hatchet job. Their hobbling across concrete. Hobnob. Hobnob. Their sidelong glances at his thingmabob. Every day the urge to rut at odds with his yen for whole grain calf nuts. The “my-my” and “tut-tut” of that bevy of cattle at their scuttlebutt. Every day his own cow’s lick even more at odds with his almighty mick. How come his second cousin, the dik-dik, gets to trip the light fantastic? Every day taking a bow before settling back to plow the rowdy-dow-dow of a Filipino swamp-buffalo, or carabao. Every day plotting how to get even even with the get who’s trolling him on the internet. Under the vapor trails of the jet set the solidity of his silhouette. Every day his image picked out in tin to signify there being room at the Inn. Bottoms up. Chin-chin. The gulping of milk punch from a pannikin. Every day cruising the main drag in anticipation of raising his own red flag to the plaza’s rag-tag bunch of scamps and scallywags. Every day forced to cram for some big exam. The difference between quondam and quamdam. The origins of the dithyramb. Every day a razor. Every night a strop. Rush tickets for Carmen at the Met cost $25 a pop. Get a move on, would you? Chop chop. A world in which so much “art” is agitprop. Every day taking a hit from some little shit armed with the latest version of lit crit. The fly still looping the loop in his Messerschmidt. Every day, it would seem, rekindling a flame against the culture of shame and its interminable blame game. Every day countering a counterclaim. Every day forced to pit himself against Holy Writ and the nitwit for whom the Lascaux paintings are counterfeit. Every day having to whisk away the versifiers averse to risk. The ignominy of being supplanted, tsk tsk, by a ram on an Egyptian obelisk. Every day lying down with the lamb. What-might-have-been? More water over the dam. Having to meet the future head-on. Wham-bam. His muzzle a spermicide-slick diaphragm. Every day the thrill of balancing a natural proclivity and an acquired skill after a walk-on part in Cattle Drive with Chill Wills. His tongue turquoise-teal from chlorophyll. Every day learning not to pin his hopes on there being grain in the bin. The situation supposedly win-win when he mounts an upholstered Holstein mannikin. Every day the likelihood of a snub from a warble grub even as he rises above the hubbub. Every day the flash-freezing of his syllabub. Every day busting sod whilst straddling a divining rod. His permanent disdain for the god squad by whom he was once overawed. Every day contending with the holier than thou attitude associated with the sacred cow, “kowtow” and “powwow” being terms he’s now obliged to disavow. Every day cutting some slack to the youths leaping over his back in Knossos. His dream of trading endless ack-ack for a week on the Concord and Merrimack. Every day starting to dig with his one obsidian hoof through the rigs. A lily-pad where a bigwig flies in and out in some sort of whirligig. Every day muddling through thanks to his tried and true ability to rise above the general to-do by thinking of it all as déjà-vu. Every day chewing gum like a Teddy Boy in a bombed-out slum. As for his success in rising above the humdrum? For a moment only. Only a modicum. Every day striking a blow against a more-or-less invisible foe. A life lived in slo-mo ever since a chute opened at the rodeo. Every day creating a stink against being pushed to the brink by the powers that be (nod nod, wink wink) with their newspeak and doublethink. Every day those massive chords on the synth as he’s rabble-roused from his plinth. His taking everything to the nth degree despite being consigned to a labyrinth. Every livelong day making of his hide a parish-encircling thong. His panko-encrusted balls a delicacy in Hong Kong. Subsisting on a diet of mashed kurrajong. Every day waiting for someone to deign to give him free rein. That shit-eating grin. How it’s maintained? Running rings around a mill that crushes sugarcane. Every day trying to weigh in the scales those who still flay the burnt offering and those who naysay such exaltation of the everyday. Every day making a dry run for either his moment in the sun or an air-injection captive bolt stun gun. The china shop of his skeleton.