Chief Garbage Taster As Fifth Grade Halloween Gag
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and came across an unpublished poem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.
Copyright ©
Matthew Harris
|