I’m Allen and my state bird is the road cone who sits in the grass between Eastbound and Westbound,
About as personal as the complimentary IKEA pencil offered by the Plexiglas dispenser next to the carts.
Twenty one Septembers ago what was I? Was I Some God’s one-in-a-million, waiting in a queue for Some Meat to hide in?
They’d lie, “Yes, Amen”, but I was a sex puddle; a worrisome smear like every other.
Today I’m this healthy crocodile who sits under our watering hole, one who’s over the whole “tears” thing.
I’ve had my man strings plucked in the rainy season, seen a magic number or two in the neutral sky, but I can’t even remember my plate number.
I’d squeeze the fine gray oil from my bones if I knew how, so I’ll do yours first for practice.
And as it dryly leaves then maybe I’ll hit it with a hammer or something harder, whatever they used on the last Dodo egg.
Then quickly plead for the stuff to come home before it gets too bent about the whole thing. Understand, I'm just covering my own bases.
I can lengthily talk about myself, plucking my own “strings”, to use my own vernacular.
And it could fuel the chills that run up you, make you wretch your blue sick all over my tasteful dust-in-so-much-wind.
What a waste that we rarely sit down and sort through this, the afterbirth - that we just bang on our pots and apologize about it later.
