The day Gaddafi died

On the day Gaddafi was
pulled from a concrete
drain pipe beneath
red and blue graffiti
and dragged bleeding
through the streets of Sirte,
just before they shot him,
the color of one whole side
of his head matched the
last leaves of the maple tree
in the park across the street
and the scene resembled
one of those nature films
in which hyenas tear red flesh
from their prey and swallow
great pieces without seeming
to chew at all - the way he
butchered so casually
throughout all his
decades on earth.
His death felt almost
ordained, and I thought
of the old woman
I knew so many years ago
at the meditation centre,
speaking of the long journey
of the spirit through rock and
vegetation to the animal world,
across who knows how many
incarnations, telling me as
though she absolutely knew
it to be so, that you can
look at certain people and
know at a glance they are
new to human life because
the aggression of animals
remains so visible in their faces
and inevitably plays itself out
over the course of their lives,
‘like that man in Libya,’ she
said, sipping green tea at a
table on the Sparks Street mall.
‘He has no blue. He is all red,
still almost wholly animal.’
(for Mukti Lok)

© 2011