The Spanish Pig.

On a warm summer night in Madrid, the sound of pig was everywhere. Not the squeals and snorts you were expecting, the swishing and swallowing of people consuming pig with every course. The Spaniards are not shy about their love of pork. All pork. And not from head to toe, from ear to toe. Every delectable morsel. Especially the baby pigs. The succulent sucklings. The sweetest, most tender meat, ever to almost

not exist. To look at them could be frightening. They were smooth and shiny skinned babies; but this was mostly a tourist's problem, never a Spaniards. Pigs have been on the butchering table in Spain for centuries. Long enough for their fate to be woven into their knowledge of existence. Yet they still fought it. Especially the sucklings. Too young understand their fate per se, they nonetheless sensed when was coming more than any adult pig ever did. They knew when death was coming, just from the sound of the approaching footsteps. They were heavier than usual, because of the knife in the farmer's hand. Thats how in tune sucklings were with their last moments. Too slow to run andtoo immature to figure out a plan however, they succumbed to the blade every time.Until Herve. Herve the suckling pig, who fooled them all and lived longer than any pig ever lived in Spain. This is his story...

there he stood,

shaking his head sadly

a bull was he,

his tusks curved mightily,

but NOT too far back.

they are the animal,

most resembling humans.

if they allow the tusks to grow unimpeded, they would finally grow curved backward,

until they pierce the skull.

NSB, NSB, why must it thus be?

why can't we move onward,

or at least be preemptive.

but the NSB, grunting and snorting,

will admonish,

he will say that the tusks grow backwards.

but their lethal trajectory,

is not a 'fullgrown conclusion' (his words).

all it takes is a little care,

some involvment,

wear , attenuate, abraid, and break.

until you one day see clear once again,

its refreshing though painful,

'take a beam from your eye,

thou hypocrite'

says he.

he sees my trajectory,

and the curved tusks, set in their way.

*North Sulawesi Babirusa

I feel bad

Bbq sauce

Dripping down my face

I try and try not to smile

It delicious

Blame the Pig

Or

Auntie Mae's grilling skills

I feel bad

Damn blueberry maple link

Winking at me

Adorning my perfect

Poached egg

Blame the Pig

Rolling in mudd

Or

Rolled in a crusty blanket

Oink!

Curly tailed Temptress!

I got you for my birthday,

you fitted comfortably in my hands.

Mum said you were a micro pig,

one that wouldn’t grow pass the size of a cat.

At the time I was going through a low but when you snuggled up on my lap you made me smile.

I called you Pip, Pip the pig.

As you grew so did I.

You grew pass the size of a collie dog, no longer my little pig.

You grew and grew hardly fitting on your bed.

I had to fight for you to stay.

Mum said a pot belly pig should not live in the house.

I plead my case.

You are more than a pig. You are

a listening ear when I’ve had a bad day at school.

You are a conversation starter who surprises others who think I’m talking about a dog.

I love to take you on walks in your bright red harness.

You waddle down the street sniffing at the flowers.

Oinking your approval of acceptable strangers.

At night time you took up most of my bed but I don’t mind, your like a huge soft toy I can cuddle.

Over the years our walks got less and less.

You developed a tumour on your neck which hindered your breathing.

As you laid there on the cold metal table struggling to breathe I knew what I had to do.

I didn’t want to let you go.

I didn’t want you to suffer.

I held your trotter in my hands and kissed you gentle on the forehead as you closed your eyes and fell into a endless dream.

See the little piggies

in their piggy world

if you would think about it

it would be absurd

spending all the day

wallowing in mud

as if they could fall in love

see all the little piggies

with there piggy friends

living life just like

the party never ends

they never wish upon

the stars that are above

that they could fall in love

do you feel sorry for the little piggies

and what they have to do

and when there lives are finally over

will it mean as much as you

see all the little piggies

live their piggy lives

Never have a piggy care

never hear a piggy cries

there’s just no way to comprehend

When pushing comes to shove

if piggies fall in love

I encountered Them. An odd pair, outlined in grey strokes against a purplish thunder-headed sky in a slight rain. They had walked a long time in a wind armed with newly acquired teeth. October had passed silently. It was the first day of the new month. And the day that for every year of my life afterwards I would spend in my room, half slumped over and sick to my stomach. Awaiting what was to come.

I'd woken that morning stiffer and colder than usual. Glancing left, I noticed that, sometime during the night, a wind had thrown the window wide. Thin curtains in dire need of replacing flapped gloomily in the early grey morning. I rose and, crossing the room wearily, pushed the window shut and slipped the hook back in place. I don't know why I bothered - the thing was rusted and loose anyway. Yet another thing that I'd long told myself I'd replace. In looking out, I noticed, first disbelievingly and then with quiet resignation, the aforementioned figures traveling the long, winding path underneath that darkly-set sky. No one had reason to ever come this way. It was why I had stayed. Had, they, perhaps, made a mistake? But, alas, only a short moments more of observation made unmistakably clear: they were coming this way.

Although I'd never been one to enjoy hosting guests, I nevertheless decided to humor the unexpected arrival. I dressed, tidied, drew open the curtains in the main room and set the water for tea. When the knock came, I answered with the key surreptitiously hidden in my hand. In case of distinctly unwanted guests, I'd throw shut the door and bolt it. Although not as young as I'd once been, if it came to, I was more than capable enough of using force. A long time ago, I'd had to use it almost every week.

Whatever expectation I had became immediately overturned at the sight that greeted me on the front steps of my home. The man, at first glance, appeared as any other sharply dressed figure on the streets of some city - tall, neatly groomed, with an air of purpose and an undercut cunning. However, upon closer inspection, there were some oddities that gave me brief pause.

For one. His overcoat, an unremarkable shade of grey, had smallish buttons shaped as eyes. They gleamed in the greyish light and appeared to blink as he breathed. Glancing up, I found his face to be hard lined and tired. He had pale lips and dark half moons under his eyes that resembled bruises. The eyes themselves - every few moments or so, they'd roll back into his skull and I'd be left staring at a pair of blank slots. I did not have the feeling that he had any control over the unusual habit - he eyed me where I stood with a flat, unchanging expression and gave no outward sign of discomfort during those odd half-second instances.

I shifted slightly in the doorway and glanced at the second companion.

The pig was large. Covered in coarse black hair shining almost indigo in the heavy light, it stood leaning heavily to its side and seemed to favor a leg. Its mouth was half open and I could make out the pink lining of its bottom lip and yellowed points that were teeth. I did not, I realized, particularly like the way it eyed me - there was something a bit too intelligent about its eyes. Before I could make any further observations, a smooth voice interrupted my train of thought.

"Would you like an apple?"

I blinked, looked again to the sharply dressed man with the white-slated eyes that came back again to focus. When I did not reply immediately, he produced a crisp green apple from the inside pocket of his overcoat. He held it out to me. I half registered the fact that it had begun to rain - the wind had picked up, pushing raindrops onto the front porch. The pig shifted, the boards creaking under its feet. The strangers eyes rolled back, flashing white, and rolled forward again. The apple appeared to float in the air. After a long moment, I found my voice.

"I- no, sir."

His expression remained unwavering.

"It's for the pig."

My brow creased.

"What?"

"The pig. The apple is for the pig."

I stared at him, uncomprehending. He'd come all this way, beneath a sky that since yesterday had promised stormy weather, for this? I lived several long miles from the nearest town with no proper road. I pressed my lips together and leaned back a bit, suspecting a joke I was in no mood to entertain. Many years ago such a thing had happened on a few occasions, but usually it had been the townspeople with their hurled eggs against my windowpanes or young boys with their shrill, sharp voices and sharper insults.That had been long ago, though - I thought they'd forgotten or grown bored of me. Apparently not. It was almost commendable. The man with the rolling eyes and the black pig. Really. They'd outdone themselves this time.

I made to close the door.

The next few things happened fast.

Like an eagle diving for its prey, the man sunk to his haunches in a fluid, sharp motion. All at once the apple was rammed between the pigs' jaws and a silver shape cut through the air. The man, eyes rolled white, had whipped a knife from his sleeve, arcing it towards the unfortunate porcine's throat. The slash sent black liquid splattering over the porch. The rain by now came down in torrents and the wind had risen to a scream. Or, perhaps, it was my own. I reeled backwards, losing my footing, and came down hard on the floorboards, the door flying open.

When I looked out again the man was gone. The pig remained where it was slumped on the porch. The black pool in which it lay spread rapidly, mixing with the rain and rippling as the biting wind passed over it. The apple hung loosely from the pigs' lips, half crushed and spilling juice. I noted almost absently the fact that the animals' eyes were still open. They seemed to stare at me, twin slots of empty black. A crack of lightning sent a flash of silver over the newly made corpse and, for a moment, it appeared as though the pig was still alive, observing me with those horribly, horribly intelligent eyes.

I don't remember too much after that. Days passed. I'd buried the pig and washed the blood from the porch. Days became weeks, and then months. A year.

It was the last day of October.

It happened the same every time.

Slobbering fool, a glutton,

A pig by any other name,

He begs unsuspecting samaritans;

For food and money, which they part with,

Once he is done for the day,

Into a professional suit he changes,

With a private car waiting,

He goes back to his mansion,

In upstate New York,

He is neither poor nor starved,

But, a miser who can't part with his wallet,

And has nothing but greed in his heart.