an End

What predator’s delight now awakens within the suburban motel womb? Arms, legs, a head, attached in mutual relationship, but not by choice, grudgingly abide by physiologically imposed terms. This body, a flask of foulest odor, offers itself in tribute to idols of porcelain, steel, and glass. And, as eggs lay dying, as bread begins to mourn, water sings. If this is how the day begins, how then shall it end?

My bacon is dead; it’s tiny arms and legs limp and lifeless. Clouds part and beams shine on the waxy slab through the picture window. Dogs begin their chaotic journey through alleys following garbage pickup, licking at greasy spots on pavement. Eggs sleep in tight, wet chambers; cool in darkness, awaiting the blue light, the fantastic impulse, dreams of cytoplasm and salt, another weary midmorning’s stasis. As meat suffers; so burns time. Candles, flaming fingers, fail to brighten my solitude. An incense of crap, pheromone beauty of maggoty remnants, wafts from hell’s sewer pipe. More coffee, please.

Flat and featureless, interstate framed by scoured cornfields, a mind lost in continents. A soul wandering from room to room, sometimes stumbling in the hallway, sometimes taking a wrong turn on the way to the ice machine. Where is home? At each exit, a concrete wall.

End of trip.