Brandon SullivanSo I had a neighbor who was from the Planet Xarc-Fabulacron.
You know the one, in the Arcturus Prime Nebula?
Anyway, one night he said to me,
“Brandon, inside every Flup (Flup was his species, you see)
inside every Flup live two Grickles.
One Grickle is good: kindness, love, humility, benevolence.
The other Grickle is evil: envy, lies, greed, arrogance.”
I stopped him before he could continue.
“Earth’s version has two wolves, symbols of the battle between good and evil in the hearts of all people. The one you feed is the one that wins.”
Bob’s expression was graven.
Yes, Bob. Look, just because he’s from Xarc-Fabulacron doesn’t mean he can’t have a normal name. That’s offensive.
In any case, I had a problem with the stories of the wolves and the Grickles. I said,
“First off, Bob, a plump wolf is a slow wolf.
Now keep that in mind when you picture a starving wolf.
Eyes bulging, lips curling, he will do anything to feed,
He’ll attack a grizzly bear so why the hell wouldn’t he rip out the good one’s throat?
Plus, I don’t just have two wolves locked in this ribcage, I’ve got velociraptors, chameleons,
I’ve got LIONS.
I have a zoo inside of me.
I watch like a hawk with eagle eyes who wouldn’t even hurt a fly because he’s letting sleeping dogs lie as they let cat after cat out of the bag on a wild goose chase.”
Bob opened his mouth to speak but I cut him off.
“Hold your horses, Bob! I’m as busy as a bee, mad as a hornet, opening a can of worms to wolf down the butterflies in my stomach, like I’m a pig headed guinea pig headed for a barrel full of fish I’ll shoot until the holy cows come home at a snail’s pace from the rat race in this dog eat dog world that also happens to be my oyster.
And none, none of these beasts are domesticated.
Even IF I could let the good wolf feast,
I fear the evil one may have a closet full of sheep’s clothing,
just so he can pull the wool over my eyes.
So how am I supposed to keep this wolf at bay if I can’t even recognize him?
Maybe I’m…the boy who cried wolf.
Because there’s just me. Alone. Howling at the moon.”
When I finished, Bob looked like he was in pain, until his chest exploded and a Grickle with its arachnid appendages crawled from the gore, carrying the severed head of another Grickle.
Huh.
I guess it wasn’t a metaphor.
POETRY FESTIVAL. Submit to site for FREE. Submit for actor performance. Submit poem to be made into film. 