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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
Explain Himself
    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. 
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Author:Hudson, Michael Derrick
Publication:West Branch
Article Type:Poem
Date:Sep 22, 2012
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