Spray painted in letters as gargantuan as farm posts, hedging in pigs
and boars whom wish only to snort through straws, our wooden
manifesto lays out in the grimy sun translated in separate tongues,
unread. Some dogs bark. They're interested in the pink skin of their
quadrupedal associates, but their unconvincing barks sound like
dump-trucks backing up over crunchy wooden slats.
Glancing upward, taking in this modern post art, conservatively-
dressed women shed their underwears. They cease the vibrations of
their protective cries--we must protect this house, and all that.
The barbarians they've drempt about now sleep peacefully around flaming trash barrels in their backyards.
Mischievous grins spread like grease across the stubbled faces of these enfeebled beggars. A few of them, the most forward thinking of the bunch, begin smoking long cigarettes. Their exposed wrists point towards the abandoned bras. Their eyes point upwards, coy and attractively perry-twinkling. They let the ash fall to their feet when it's damned good and ready to fall. They impress their friends with the new uses they discover for discarded board games. They've become quite popular. Everyone copies their ingenious habits.
The bored dogs previously barking gradually give up their attention
gestures. They're able to let go of their insecurities. They
strike up gentle causeries. Some soon choose democratically to
surgically remove their shaky primitive tails. A few still secretly
indulge with kibble or bacon bits. The majority though have
abandoned even delicious anuses.
These pert old dogs rest metallic ladders against the tops of the
posts, struggling comically with the latches just in case. But most of
them don't care about the pigs anymore. The licentious bra-less
women occupy the ladders, roosting atop the peaked words.
The leeringest members marvel obnoxiously at all the pink skin.
*Published in Statler & Waldorf, 2009*
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