A wafer of indignity flew backwards through that cold, astringent night while peregrine potato bugs began their sultry swooning to be repeated, ad infinitum, until the cows come home to their cluttered garden apartments and flip on the boob tube for some unchallenging entertainment. Another day at the salt mines has left our bovine friends reaching for a simple night with chuckles, popcorn, reality TV and mediocre sex.
Moo. Somebody scratch my nose, please.
“Where do you keep your rat tippers?”
“I keep my rat tippers with my cow flippers, in the back-right corner of the pantry next to the party fixins. Why do you ask?”
“I really need something to get these rats off my case, especially because of this ingrown toenail I have. I can’t risk being caught with such vermin on my case, if you know what I mean.”
At this point, the two friends
must risk being caught in public
discussing rat matters,
which is a certain cause
for social suicide around these parts.
They are either totally secure
in their position
or unaware that such talk
could land them in the looney bin.
I pelted the transmission
with a graph of some kind.
Then I stuck a needle
through the whole of middle earth,
a squishy stammer
that would amount to
nothing but a syringe
in a pile of rocks anyway.
We can’t all predict
where we’ll get those molten ideas,
but it certainly doesn’t hurt
to throw your dice into the wind
and see which cows snarf them up
when they hit the ground.
Hopefully they have big spots
that spell out words
when you look at them really close,
like moo or something.
Negligence costs you,
I always say to my elbows,
the prominence despicable
yet always intriguing–
cows flourish on
grass and sun, take
their grazing seriously.
“Wherever you take me, I hope it’s not too cold there.
My hands have poor circulation, and if they’re bound up
with three feet of rope and stuck into a sixty-five degree room,
I’m likely to lose them for good. That almost happened to me
during my brief POW stint in capture the flag when I was ten.
They bound me up and threw me into the medical trailer, or ‘jail’,
whereupon I proceeded to chatter my teeth and scream for twenty minutes.”
“It’ll be plenty warm where you’re going, bub. Don’t you worry.”