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Chief garbage taster as fifth grade Halloween gag
at Henry Kline Boyer Elementary School
interestingly enough landed me a grubhub grab bag.

I rooted thru poetry anthology of mine,
and came across an unpublished poem
by one obscure poet (me), whose trademark
wit and wisdom hallmark
cardinal characteristics
of posthumous fame and fortune
largesse most likely 
tabby bestowed upon grand kittens -
appended courtesy Facebook
since none of my two (both 
twenty something aged) darling daughters
opted to be fruitful and multiply.

Courtesy brainchild of dear old dad
(actually when alive 
and in his prime, he happened to be spunky 
as an overgrown lad),
unanimous assent between him and mother
(she also when young, his junior by a tad)
both agreed their quiet natured son
(yours truly plus younger sister)
best be outfitted as rubbish.

Anyway, as a Halloween costume, 
one year during early grade school, 
my father got the brilliant idea 
for his sole son to be dressed 
with one of a kind getup.

Missus Shaner – long since gone to dust 
(the talon clawed, shriveled 
relic of a dinosaur, 
who taught fifth grade) 
gave me first prize, 
and subsequently felt so convinced 
about authenticity of this kid 
being “privileged white trash”, 
she notified another kid 
dressed as a janitor 
to dispense with me 
in the school dumpster.

The sanitation disposal company 
drove me (and subsequently 
dumped yours truly 
among the real rubbish 
in the dumpster) 
to nearest landfill 
loaded with all kinds of junk 
such as food scraps, recyclables, 
and soiled diapers. 

Over a short span of time, 
the detritus commingled 
into one noxious brew 
of a despicable fly haven, 
whereby jiggling lifelike maggots, 
jumpstarted, lunched, and nursed putrescence 
re: reeking and teeming vibrantly 
with yum zuck for a swamp thing, 
I seemed to be metamorphosed 
into sewer rat as if by some cruel hoax.
Nothing prepared, neither sickened 
nor violated senses 
of smell, sight, taste, and touch 
to the maximum factor 
intolerant of odoriferous odious stench.

Each pestilential assault 
issued an appalling refrain 
courtesy Fiona Apple's: 
The Idler Wheel Is Wiser 
than the Driver of the Screw 
and Whipping Cords Will Serve You 
More than Ropes Will Ever Do.

Before mine myopic bespectacled eyes 
(smarting from constant comet drubbing irritants 
(which glasses – rather bifocals – 
caked with smudge good as naught), 
stayed wide shut from inundation 
of said corrosive gaseous shaped 
oxbow lake comprising wreath like wisps.

Liberty vis a vis in sight 
envisioned visibly threatened offshoots 
of tendril spikes; snaking sneakily, 
sordidly slithering silently, 
yet straightaway as a scene 
from some spooky sideshow 
or “haunted house”.

This ugly slop 
splashed upon mine formerly 
pristine academic uniform 
appeared near identical 
to the grub hub (the lunch lady served) 
splattered sundry speckles 
sans sundry detritus, 
which found me writhing with nausea.

Thee nasty muck and mire 
found this formerly introverted boy 
transformed into a sponge bobbing 
squarely panting creature 
from the black lagoon, 
whose skinny sea legs 
sought semi-solid surface 
to stand upright position amidst 
variegated flotsam and jetsam.

Dishabille appearance acquired 
a fresh splattered coat of rancid slimy 
green eggs and ham with bacon 
covered gangly arms 
(among other bit pieces of moldy clothes, 
food and iconic library oddment) 
ricocheted unpredictably as trash truck 
violently shook up and down 
all night long en route on this highway to hell 
found me thunderstruck
(before being buried alive in Moyer’s Dump), 
which toxic brew would be declared 
a SuperFund Site 
and shuttered in the near future.

Once Robert Hall wardrobe 
affixed with a capital one fancy feast 
of grateful dead roadkill, 
kickstarter from some automotive contraption, 
and plenti of fish heads 
(with thine spongy bobbing squarepants 
trimmed with lovely bones), 
I felt indistinguishable 
from regular riffraff riding shotgun.

When random trucker parked and stopped, 
the awful bin laden made ready 
to empty contents within the mountain 
of olfactory noxious material.

A thought occurred, 
that now might be the golden 
(or rather gook steeped) opportunity 
to extricate myself 
from morass of mish mashed, 
spud nicked mine 
linkedin kindled juggernaut, 
icky first class bric a brac.
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