After the Bullfight

Spitting blood, the bull tumbles head and hooves into the rustling dust before the gloating matador who, dressed in a gold-tassled pink leotard, turns his back on the beast and holds high a black hat to the crowd.

Soliciting appreciative cheers for so artfully performed an execution.

Behind the matador, a few men crowd around the crippled, dying bull. One man stabs a short blade into the back of the animal's neck and, with a rough, sawing motion, hacks through the spinal cord.

In come two horses to bear the bull away; as it's dragged off toward the red wooden doors, its spilt blood streaks into the dust.

Men shovel fresh sand
To mask the red stains
And ready the place
For another joyous death.

Six times in a row. Two bulls for each of three matadors.

This is sport. The winner so blantant that it need not be announced.

Choosing Truths

Old cheese on a wet napkin
Mouse-eaten partly such that
Now it's holy;
Gold-coloured wax wraps
The surface, shining bright,
Illuminating darkness so
Hard-won by one old fromageur
Who wanted for his masterwork to
Never go to mould.

Mouse-eaten old cheese on a wet napkin
Growing holier by the day
Thanks to gnawing teeth
Housed in mouths that
Whisper no prayers;

Don't tell the priest:
He´ll get angry and say
"Only faith and devotion make one Holy."

Don´t try to persuade him:
He won´t trust your facts.
If priests believed in proof
They wouldn't need faith
To help choose their truths.