Sunday, April 10, 2011

The Art of the Possible

First they trim the fat.   Then they cut the meat from the bone.  Someone soon comes to suck out the last of the marrow.  Then someone else arrives to lick the bone clean.  If you’re lucky enough to find a way, you can drill holes in the bone and carve out a mouthpiece.  Then you can pipe songs about going hungry, about the winter cold, getting shafted.  Thus (while they prefer what turns to dirt) the bone lives every time you blow into it.


  1. Interesting prose piece. I find using the word, shit, to be pointless, however. You could use your imagination and have something like "it turns to money" or "it turns to refuse" (double meaning there...just suggestions.

  2. Thanks for the comment. Shit is the result of eating, and "it" rhymes with "it," which makes it the opposite of "pointless". "Refuse" is not a word that belongs in a poem (though I can imagine someone using it.)

    I'll try to use my imagination more.