I find solace in the anguish of the dandelion, struggling to bloom in the spring, like the waif at the seashore struggling to land a fish, so as not to starve, yet another day.
So then the devil rocks in his rocking chair and laughs, as he gleefully casts the souls into the fires of Hell, and the rotted fetid corpse upon the mantle there continues to rot and swell and smell.
And Momma in her kerchief, and I in my cap had just resisted the temptation to have coitus before the breakfast meal, and Junior in his loincloth, came in to see if what he had smelled was really real.
Old Sadie, her tousled gray hair, blowing about her head, wishes once again that her husband, Old Moze, hadn’t come back so soon from the dead.
And on the cement of the old cistern, in the yard out back, the remains of what was once my faithful dog is now molding and turning black.
Too many walnuts, cracked upon the sidewalk there, Explosive vomit rends the noonday air, and in a fit of frenzy, I pull out my very last agonized little pubic hair.
(A Man Named John — 2018)