fugimundi (cracked and splattered with Jemima juice)

O whither goest thou

within or without

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Consider the humble amoeba, how it toils not, and spins not, yet consumes the fleshy circuits that talk to God.

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Easy, now

 

 

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Criminy shucks, Clarence, you outta yo mind?

Angels don’t have minds.

Or hearts for that matter.

Just a soul and a lotta will.

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Consider the humble amoeba, how it toils not, and spins not, yet noshes on evolution's greatest wonder turning conscience into protozoan excrement, as happy in a brain as in a pond or doing the backstroke in maple syrup.

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Life is one big Aunt Jemima bottle that got jostled in the box on the way to the store cracked and splattered with Jemima juice and some kid in a smock washed it off in the mop room and put it on the shelf sticky with applique glass.

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Life is the bottom layer of a pallet of Hellman's Mayonnaise crushed by layers of mayonnaise above it, spitting out chunky yellow and dry.

Yassuh, gonna live sumday in the big layer on the top of the mayo pallet where burdens are light and I can see forever.

 

[2013-9-11 <- These dates are real; I work on them over the course of days, a few minutes at a time; this prose poem had its genesis in 9/11 and the terrorist attacks on that day.]

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I spent  a lot of years working in grocery stores. The biggest messes to clean up were:

• Liquid soap

• Syrup (corn, maple, etc)

• Eggs

• Sugar and flour, especially in winter time (once it started getting tracked down the aisle by wet boots)

• Cooking oil

• Ketchup

A customer once put fresh fish all wrapped up pretty in butcher's paper behind a case of canned mixed fruit. It took us two days to find it, by which point the putrefaction was nearly unbearable.

[2013-10-14]

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