Hooves participates in the Running of the Bulls.
I am Hooves, a humble rodeo bull celebrating my sixteenth
birthday in Spain…Pamplona, Spain to be exact. I’m into
running, and so I am here to run with the other bulls
in this fine tradition; it is the Running of the Bulls.
Ernest Hemingway made it famous in his novel,
The Sun Also Rises. Hooves also rises; Hooves also runs…
and so the stomping bulls shake the very earth of compacted
clay en masse, and they surge like a bullish tide, awing
spectators, raising clouds of dust, signing the air
with laboring snorts, with a brutish and plaintive
bellowing. There are barricades along the route
where we charge, where we as mammals bovid
achieve second wind on our rite of run.
And thus we bump said barricades that then deform
like putty in the sun. It is a matter of consequence.
These man-made attempts at segregation between
us and them pale in the scope of our intensity.
Not-so-patient onlookers gawk, bend like question marks,
cheer with a zeal unloosed from areas dank and
seldom seen. Still we run, we market our out-and-
out lust for weight afoot, for the brutish spectacle
of vicarious glee, for the urges pocketed, then spent.
In this outdoor stampede mad, I sense hearts
race as we race, as we drive daring
like some leathery entity seeking our own end.
Oh, the humanity, the dare, the Devil and his
minions. And the look I give to humans so
gleefully careless, so cavalier for the mad-capped
continuance. Yet I am pinned to earth by many fellow bulls,
and I suddenly see the stars in a Cosmos I have only vaguely
heard about, and I want for air as around me oppressive
shrouds persist in the constricting. A cacophony of roar
abates to meek whimpers; the ebbing light flitters to
chasms black and bottomless.
I am bull now bought and sold by death,
consigned to eternity, animate no more.
It is not so sad—it is not so troubling. The energy
of me remains, like rays of sun, like the very light
of stars. This too, perhaps one day, will fire
some newborn soul.