"I'm sure this is the finest filet knife they've ever used,"
says the figure projecting from the television's half-light.
7 elderly women in Greensboro just relinquished $39.99 of their
soul so they might master a salmon like those thick Alaskan hands
that summon, from the spirit's forgotten chasms, images of lost husbands.
If I look close enough, I can see these eyes, bloodshot, in the excessive
shine of 3 payments of $13.33. Even so, there is much inside me that longs
to pick up the phone and, after 10 strokes with precision fingers,
be the proud owner of enough razor-edged lethality to slaughter
a Plains-worth of Buffalo with the necessary fervor of my sacred ancestors.
Mine will be a tragic figure, home-shopping addict, head full
of the kind of false emotion that Snodgrass warned about, home full of
multi-purpose mechanic bliss. "Call now, your time is running out,"
says the man. This is truth, I think, as I fall asleep to
the whir of miniature blenders.
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