Erin Beckett | + Follow Poet |
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Pretense of the Wild

There's some urge in me that makes me want to dance. Dance the dizzying spin
of childhood again until I fall still, mimicking the lifeless on the grass and laugh
with the scent of dirt and air and life. No fear
of the unclean. Or the co-mingling scent of alcohol-laden
sweat or the lingering eyes of intoxicated men.
No music but the wind. This simple want is simple enough
to mend. So the un-doing must be my vice. But it's unwanted
and I'm thinking twice. What the heart wants is wild. Primal. 
Behavior is not a spontaneous thing,

but a learned reaction. Like the fear of being seen
for too far gone and past the customary 
stretch. I've been afraid. But nobody wins
without starting the race for the long-haul 
even if it turns out to be a short spin. Nobody knows
and that's the thing

and the irony about what we know. If you want to taste the fruit
you might have to risk falling from the tree. It's the anecdote
of craving for the wild. And we all do.
So there's that cliche "passion for adventure".
I want to feed it what it craves and watch it spring up forbidden fruit
undeterred. Uncontrollable. Bloom into a raging obsession
that's dangerous. But it's a dangerous game,

and it's all about the novelty of a thing. That's how I know the game
is still wild. Right alongside our securities and self-inflicted
responsibilities that take front seat to the natural methods
we make to survive. 
And there's suburban housewives,
and seven o'clock dinners
in the bigger houses for the biggest winners. 
But we're never really cultured because culture's a lie.
We're just reprimanded too many times and the sameness
is weeded out through the television lines telling us stories
about the difference that coordinates the violence. 
But people have to have their vices. 
A way to let out the wild hoping for ways that appear tame,
 
if we give them a proper name just like our actions in the dark. 
Or the things we want to do when nobody's watching,
and so we learn pretend games instead 
until the feeling is dead. 
Or expressed or repressed. And sometimes we joke about 
the urges. 
But it only gives the wild a different name.

Copyright © Erin Beckett | Year Posted 2011

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