The last time there was a genuine rampage, herds stampeding with the zest of hurricanes, with the pulsations of a storm, and the force of destiny, when the road went up against the villous ceiling, when the stronger ones pushed forward to the cruel thunder of whips while the zombies fell back into permanent darkness, the last time the cavalry charged across the whole width of the enemy line into the gap between life and death, and not even one single droplet of misery dripped, the last time something really won and the rest turned into compost that was when the sperm made the journey up the oviduct. This was 'to be or not to be'. Since that time we've been tottering round with the embarrassment of softening skeletons, with the wistful caution of mountain gorillas in the rain; we keep hoping for the time-lapse soul, secreting marital problems and a stationary home metaphysics against which the adenosine triphosphate of every fucked-up cell is like the explosion of a star in a chicken coop. Submitted by Eldan, who writes: I'm trying very hard to become a scientist without becoming dull and inarticulate like the stereotype. Too few non-scientists can appreciate the beauty of what we study, and too few scientists try to do anything about this. I see Holub as a great example of a scientist actually trying to express the passion of what he did (he passed away a few years ago). This poem is one that I wish I had written even more than I do most of his.
Submitted by Eldan, who writes: I'm trying very hard to become a scientist without becoming dull and inarticulate like the stereotype. Too few non-scientists can appreciate the beauty of what we study, and too few scientists try to do anything about this. I see Holub as a great example of a scientist actually trying to express the passion of what he did (he passed away a few years ago). This poem is one that I wish I had written even more than I do most of his.