One Cow

Thinking about our food supply,
specifically the masses of cattle
in feed lots and dairy stalls,
enduring our degrading stewardship
in silent anonymity.
Thinking about how we’ve been
breeding the ideal domestic cow
through cloning, thinking that
there may perhaps be by now
only one cow.
Is it possible the collective conscious
of a same cloned individual
works something like the minds of twins,
not so strangely, as one?
I awoke from a dream of this cow.

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Eric Verlo

About Eric Verlo

On sabbatical
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1 Response to One Cow

  1. Avatar The 13th says:

    To the readers of NMT: Turn back from this post! The following comment has nothing to do with politics, but perhaps does have something to do with meat, domestics, and dreams.

    To the editor of NMT: My apologies for the digress. Maybe you will find like it. But just the same – I hope you will delete this in days to come. It’s not a timeless piece, or a timeful peace, but just a little merriment,

    a fancy (if you will) for NMT. For Jonah, Tony, Eric and Marie.

    I’m dropping it here – under the cow post – as this is as close a blog as I can find to talk about quiet things.

    And this is a quiet thing. It’s also about endless dreams.

    This is a post about summer.

    It seems sharing summer is a rare thing for many of us these days. Perhaps the work schedules, perhaps the friends you forgot to say hello to, or perhaps summer is just sublime. Spring and fall are obvious seasons in Colorado. It’s no wonder that everyone seems to prefer them. Summer is more elusive – like Carl Sandburg’s fog it creeps in with the ozone levels, on cricket chirps, icy drinks, and yard sprinkers.

    I woke the middle of this night from a dream. And I noticed my loved one had quieted away from the bed sometime in my sleep.

    As for my dream it was about my mother and I. Odd, it was winter in the dream. We were crossing a road together and she kept falling. Although there was only a little traffic, given her frailty the whole thing was quite precarious. I would drag her to her feet and then she’d lose her footing again, and down one or both of us would tumble. Upon reaching the other side I directed her towards a small ledge on which to sit.

    “You know,” she said “it’s not the falling that worries me. It’s the fear of losing my mind!”

    I tried to comfort her and offered “Why should you worry about losing your mind? You’ll be the only one who doesn’t notice it!”

    She laughed a bit then forced herself to her feet. We retreated to an old book store that was open. Somehow my loved one appeared and together we all started trading old for new. Then I woke up.

    Yes, that was a true dream! Freud would have loved it. I really didn’t think too much about it – except that I liked its calming tones.

    I climbed out of bed and went to see what was keeping my bother-half from sleep. It was nothing. She was just feeling restless, perhaps a chance for some quiet.

    I asked if I was intruding and she was quite happy to have some company, suggesting we take a walk. I was resplendent in the offer!

    The “tears of St. Lawrence”, commonly known as the Perseids meteor shower, will be falling on The 13th this month. And if you look below the bull, you will also see Mars staring right back at you, too!

    I’m a big fan of astronomy. Another summer ritual. Star-gazing in the back yard. When I was young I was fortunate in having the opportunity of seeing one helluva brimstone fireshow in the sky. I thought the world was going to end! and I’ve been hooked to staring at the cosmos every since.

    Perseus, as mythology fans may recall, was the dude who slayed Medusa, the snake haired woman. It all happened quite by chance actually. Years prior to the mission, he was overheard begging for his mother’s safety and boasted he would kill any monster if kindness was offered his mother. The Gods heard Perseus and accepted the deal.

    As for Saint Lawrence, well I had to research that one a bit. He’s seems to be an allright chap, a religious hero himself, in fact. His main claim to fame was in protecting (hiding or giving away) the Holy Grail. He was also known for his sense of humor. And when his Inquisitors burned him alive, his last words were heard to be “Eat me!”. Don’t believe me? Look it up!

    Looking up.

    That brings me back to the Perseids. And night strolling.

    We went out for a walk. I was hoping to see one of those stars that was going to fall on The 13th. Perhaps if I caught it early I could keep it from hitting him. I grabbed my sandels and my lovers hand and we set out into the night.

    Outside it was summer.

    My sandals aren’t new to walking or time – in fact one of them was so deteriorated I had to remove it.

    I jested the neighbors probably think I’m drunk – but the real jest was that everyone else was sleeping. It’s a juvenile fun being awake when everyone else is sleeping yet I admit we both seem to enjoy it when we can.

    So we laughed quietly as I hobbled along, one shoe on, one shoe off. I thought about halfs. My lover was enjoying the quiet. The prior day was out of sight and the night ashes were polishing the jewels of the next.

    While we strolled through our local suburbia, suddenly a street light above us went out. A short startle! then we took the opportunity to look for early meteors despite the haze of inner city living. I saw one. She did not.

    Rumor has it (my rumor, by the way) that in a meteor shower you can wish on every star that falls – and at least one wish will come true! Ok, admittedly, that’s a game of odds, but experience is not kind to magic nor singularity.

    After a short stargaze we began to walk again. Magically the street light came back on. Of course this was not magic either – it was a motion detector doing its job.

    “Damned city progress!” I muttered under my breath. “I thought street lights were to protect us from Jack the Ripper. Now they’re just here to keep cars from driving over the greenery!”

    It was a short gripe – and under my breath it sounded a bit like a balloon hissing. We laughed at the contrived snarl, and I was all too happy to dismiss the minute social commentary and resume the walk.

    I’m a tall person, a bit lanky, but if the occasion is right I can do a good Mr. Bean impersonation. The giddyness of the night air lended for pantomine and a bit of stodgery’s mocking.

    **** We interupt this blog to bring you ****

    Originally Posted by zoobyshoe: I can’t find “stodgery” in the webster’s.

    Hypnagogue: That’s odd. I guess it’s a mix between codger and scrooge (?). I thought it was a word though.

    Definition of “stodgy” from

    1. [a] excessively conventional and unimaginative and hence dull; “why is the middle class so stodgy, so utterly without a sense of humor?”

    2. [a] (used pejoratively) out of fashion; old fashioned; “moss-grown ideas about family life”.

    **** we now return you to my nocturnal emission ****

    Verily – per “moss grown ideas” – yes, a rolling life gathers no moss. Nor do crap dice in Vegas!

    I will spare you the details of my walking pantomime. It wouldn’t work here. Only the writers do that. And sometimes the readers too I suppose.

    We strolled back home.

    My tender friend went back to sleeping.

    Now dear readers, please know this much at least: it’s not always bliss like this may sound, not always a summer night. And though we’re both in debt, a rich girl is now dreaming in the other room. And the dreams she’s finding are not mine to claim nor share. But I can share you this story which is as true an account as all things I know.

    Outside is a quarter-moon being chased by the new day, and by the time that you read this – a paper moon indeed.

    Love is much like idealism, part reality, part dream. Somehow they both thrive on the cognition, the effort, and the tomorrow. Occasionally there is peace. You have to look hard for the justice.

    While reading between my bad writing and digressions in this draft or even this website’s entirety, perhaps you too can see this Midsummer Night’s Dream. Maybe you will see Robin Starveling or Nick Bottom, Philostate and Peter Quince. Certainly If you squint your eyes as if to attempt a sleep you might hear Puck’s voice apologizing, and that surely will tell you the story is not over.

    The bard also has this to offer. “The course of true love never did run smooth.”

    And to my friends, the idealists, the determinists, the libertarians, and the faithful – I say same.

    Keep looking up. “Hope is a waking dream.” – Aristotle

    Good day. Good night.

    One last thing…Mark your calendars for the Perseids! They are at their peak on the Twelfth Night


    The 13th

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