dummy

One day I will fall out of the sky

into your oven. I will say to you

Betty Crocker, you better cook me.

Cover me in vegetables and disgusting

sauce. Put a white apple in my mouth.

I will lick it like a newborn.

Because, I am like that. I am not

your innuendo or ear infection

or even a carrier of this disease. I am

the beast who talks. [& sometimes wills.]

So shoot me. Cook me. Beat me with

your mallet. Things are shaggy in here

and I am not afraid to say so.

I don’t know, George. It’s like I’ve

been saying about the last century:

an abnormal amount of wet. It’s

like we had to evolve a certain je ne

sais quoi–a blade–to cut the sponge

from the kelp. To shake it loose.

To clench it. In the end it didn’t

taste so good. Perhaps that’s my bad.

I didn’t make the meat, I know,

au jus. But we live in a bloody age

and I like you a little, still. So bite down

on my finger, once more. And remember–

I am not going to do this again.