The Neolithic Ice Man Wakes Up in a Laboratory and Tries to Explain Himself.
The Neolithic Ice Man Wakes Up in a Laboratory and Tries to
There is nothing left for my axe to hew. My flint's
grown cold, so quaint, so pitiful--
but of course! Thawed out. Forever shellacked,
I've become artifact: three dozen seeds tweezed
from my black puckered gut, the sticky
resins whittled off my glassy bones, the pollen
of Alpine flowers swabbed
from the leathery creases of my hard-luck frown ...
But molecules rendered to such purposeful smears
won't simmer to a convincing
broth: they can't find my why. No if. No plausible
what-for. My destination?
Yonder mountain or two? Hell if I knew. My life
was a looted hive, the happenstance
of a gooseberry patch. Forking up beetles and grubs
or anything else slower
and smaller, anything stupider than me--that was
my fungible currency. So what about
my love, you ask? What was she like? Ha! I think
you just sneezed some of her
all over your sleeve! My tongue? We had the usual
clicks and woohoos--we could yap
all night! Hootenanny and sing, we'd pray
for better things. And our priests daubed the ceiling
with the usual made-up stuff,
tar-pit sloth gods and convincing red tigers with wings.