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The Shell of Me

Got some stamps with which to send my guts to the pork plant. Who’s gonna mail the package once I scrape myself out? The shell of me. The shell of me can go swimming in a crick of chocklit, and the fake chocklit liquor will seep its way into the holes of my pupils. Because I punched them out with a candy stick I sharpened in my mouth at the Cracker Barrel. I can feel the cocoa butterless ooze ooze all over my insides when I am down at the bottom, and I quiver and shiver at the sensation. My guts at the pork plant are stuffed in an extraordinarily large envelope which sits on the edge of the loading dock, staring off at the skyline of Kansas City, looking like a morose Quasimodo with dry skin and patches of blood and shit sweat popping up all over his damned body. “No!” screams the pork-processing plant manager. He hits the delivery driver with a hammer. “I will not make sausages with these guts! Whose guts are these?” And from the bottom of the creek, I mutter, and the last bubble of air within my shell rises fluidly up and up through the cloying murk, to pop at the surface with a squelch and “Those guts were once mine.” The envelope skin is now seeping wet from containing my guts, his only friends excited flies. It is top-heavy, and falls over onto the concrete dock with another squelch as the loading doors close, leaving him alone with sunshine and flies. Do I have any grief? I have no grief.

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