Corn Rows (i.e. a lesson in scatology)
October 19, 2011
It is very likely
(knowing the current culture of course),
That a title such as above,
or where ever such things are located
would evoke images of dark, braided hair
(and unusual fashion, no less)
Probably on some celebrity or peer
Or latest Snoop-Dogg video
Or latest Allen Iverson highlight.
But this is NOT how I remember corn rows.
I remember leviathan (if leviathan is three times your height) stalks
which erected themselves as solemn as Gregorian monks
(though I had no clue what Gregorian monks were at the time).
But green monks, at that. And very emaciated.
Very, very emaciated.
None of this matters.
I remember, with a running start,
Diving into the safari foliage
Armed with a machete constructed from hickory
(otherwise known as a stick with a pointy end)
There I would hide out,
With mom imploring that I come out.
She said she knew I was in there.
To this day, present moment, in point of fact
I doubt it!
And even if she did, it matters not.
The principle remains:
I stuck it out.
“Dinner,” she offered.
But I didn’t falter
Despite the teacup chihuahua
Beginning to rouse itself in my innards.
But the hunger stalked me like something much more
Vicious than a chihuahua.
I remember a plan formed itself very plainly
As I stocked the jungles, with nineteen suns hanging overhead.
As they beat down mercilessly, I realized my folly thus far:
Provision lent its ears to me
And I devoured them raw!
Shredding their sheaves
The kernels popped and deflated between my teeth,
the white and pee-yellow carnage lay undisturbed on the moist dirt.
Which is probably what pee would look like if you pooped pee
In little turds.
Satisfied, the minutes passed,
But the poor chihuahua, idiot that he was
Got himself swallowed by a lunatic banshee that howled out of my bowels.
I pooped myself.
Diapers were still in vogue (thank goodness!)
Yet as I recall that moment,
Should my browned mess have contained a more
Abrasive, brillo quality
It would remind me more of corn rows.
The kind I don’t remember.
Or at least the kind I don’t care to.