the scientist

“I love my rats,” he says
as he makes the incision,
that final decision
to take a life.
Taking up his knife,
he makes the cut.

Secrets pour out from inside…

I wonder how he loves his wife…
Or if he loves his children,
if he even feels them
or if he looks at them through glass –
misshapen spectacles
that see what’s correctable.

Delectable, detectable
to eyes that have seen the mind of God,

he says,

seen all that is flawed,

he says,

“Carrot first, but then the rod,”

he says.

He says he knows of love.

He knows love like a theorem,
a sweet serum
setting neurons on fire…
For what is desire
besides dopamine?
God, besides triptamines?
Pain, a need for morphine,
and suffering, all that suffering
just needs buffering…

The solution for pollution
to cure imperfection
calls for one more dissection.
It’s just natural selection,

no more  imperfection.
PLEASE! NO MORE GODDAMN IMPERFECTION!
DISEASE! They’re just vermin.
He’s not God, no…just human.
Seclusion. Delusion.

But don’t worry,
he loves his rats.

He’s got love down to a science,
knows it’s a function of compliance,
an equation with no room for defiance.

That’s correct sir, he loves his rats.

And his wife and his children,
How he refuses to accept them
accept that they’re broken…
Perhaps he’s misspoken, perhaps he’s mistaken
or just shaken, too shaken,
by all that is human,

by his own humanity,
his own insanity
and vanity…

Better, so much better, to put them under glass.

Encase me in your steel gaze, o’ scientist,
for you are my brother in arms.
We carry that same burden on our shoulders,
carry that same heartache in our chests.

But see how I dance in indecision?
See how my words are my knife?
See how I use them to pierce my own psyche?

See how I see how you lie?

When you tell me you love your rats…
When you tell me the solution’s out there.
When you tell me that contemplating love means nothing.
When you tell me it’s not about control.
When you tell me that numbers are the only right answers.
When you tell me you’re no necromancer.

When you tell me life exists to be enhanced
by human hands…

Do you remember the last time we danced?

When dreams and screams became one and the same,
when you told me you feared the forgetting of your name,
when your book full of secrets poured open
and my heart received them.

When my eyes met yours for eternity.
When we reached the stars for a moment.

When you told me you couldn’t afford to feel this
right now?

So tell me, scientist.
Tell me, lover…
Do you love your wife and your children?

I pray from my heart that you see them…
I beg from my soul that you don’t put them under glass.
Instead, see that you are human too,
recognize what is divine and holy

and that in this matter your mind just may be your enemy.

That night when you let me into your eyes, I saw you,
and you are not alone.
You are not unholy.
You are not what you fail to accomplish.

You are not just a headstone eroding,
a name on a grave just fading away…

And yes, there will come a day
that the last one who knew you will utter your name.
But, my love, that must be okay.

There’s no choice in it anyway.

So please…
Don’t tell me that you love your rats
or your facts and figures.

Tell me you love your wife and your children,
your mother and father,
your planet and universe.

Tell me that you love yourself,
and that you do so with the kind of love
that spills through space-time,

the kind of love that makes you forget all that you’ve memorized,
the kind of love that finds you
forever mesmerized.

The love that makes truth from your lies.

Never again tell me that you love your rats.

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