Friday, May 22, 2009

Pumper Nickle

Ka'BLAMM, something on the porch I thought. Should I check it out. Hell no, could be some drunken yard man wanting another Dutch beer and 40$ dollars for running the gas out of his weed bludgeoner while he smoked roll ups and told stories of Carolina Black snakes. No better send in a probe...The cats were out of food again so I tossed one into the drop zone. Then, nothing, no bone crunching and punctured lung squealing like the day she waited for us to return from vacation to eat her young. Not even the guttural moaning she liked to do at the wee hours before dawn, deep in feral penetration, sedated in a musk cloud under our bedroom floor. I will have to go in myself. I would rather face the ancient unnamed than carry this Jar of diffuse fear, dripping from my nipples and tugging at my navel like some do it yourself carny so desperate for uniqueness but distinguished only by staff infection. I jerked the knob hard and flung the door wide. At first my eyes were still trying to punch the fresh pages of information from their pre pounce bedding. I barely made out a fey of black static darting into her make shift kitty cave. I must have harshed the cats curiosity and so she followed protocol. Its a virtual basket weave of tangential codependency in wild kingdom of my yard. The cats eat the lizards at a rate of approximately sixteen carcasses a week. In exchange, the termites agree to put a hole in our living room floor and one in the bead board skirting the stoop in the front of the house for good measure. The hole in the front of the house has become a respit on the eastern front of canine - feline relations. You never know when the neighborhood pits will make a sweep and this passage gives due strength to the resistance as it stands. As my breathing filed a final report of no immediately danger and I felt clawing at my vital organs was at a minimum or at least nothing more than what I normally experienced by virtue of malaise de'reguerre, I could start to make out the source of this mornings thump. It was an orphan. Not living and wouldn't be until an outlet was found. It was one of those wire framed animatronic lawn ornaments. Out of shortage of interior wall space I have resorted to putting paintings out under my front porch as they are bigger paintings. This practice also suits the schizophrenically attention seeking hermit hogtied to my crusty soul. Some one must have known I would take this creature in. Abuse was obvious. Looked like a dumpster rescue. Usually they are flocked a glossy winter wonderland white, but this one had been soiled. The wire cage around her body forced into abdominal proportions. There were two big humps in her ass. The shoulders were forced into concentric rings around the shoulders. What once was obviously a reindeer was now no longer recognizable as such. It was a cast away. Looked like someone had used a whole aerosol can or two of night breed black spray paint on her, the drips just frozen in place around its muzzle. No, this was no small world icon of consumptive festivus. Bambi was now a hell spawn stray of Faustian proportions. Now the obvious question is, does she still work.

1 comment:

Russell Maycumber said...

moving soon must disembowel take only the motors....

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St. Augustine, Florida, United States
I spill ink ,it collects here.