Spam Myth

by Jim Tyack

IT was the dawn
neither the hydrangea nor
the shingles on the house
had been born
a fire-red sun low against
the knuckle-scraping ground
birds were bigger then
huge hulking refrigerators
and fish like tractor trailers
the only language: grunt
the oohs and aahs of surprise and fear
occasional song
as when luncheon meat
was first discovered

In Austin, Minnesota, the cows' guttural bass arpeggios woo the hogs
with Phillip Glass repetitions, the varifying modulations vibrate against
their porcine bladders like feathers against a gong, and the farmers'
wives ooh and aah like kittens in front of Home Shopping TV. Imagine

that — a velvet flocked vacuum cleaner with dual carbs, 800 horse, and
enough sexual apparatus attachments to make Catherine the Great whinny.
''Oh Sven! Plug me in!'' they shudder, every crevice jammed with luncheon
meat, nipples in aspic, and the hogs howl like Allen Ginsberg for Blake.

Meanwhile, down the road at Hormel, Inc., an exec in yellow paisley
power tie, pisses in a vat of Spam. ''This ought to teach the fuckers,''
he screams. He has just heard the news of Diane Wakowski's engagement to
the King of Spain and after drinking too much coffee he runs amok

looks up voodoo in the yellow pages, contacts hit men in Toledo, sends
cases of Spam to John Wayne Gacy, Ted Bundy, Richard Speck

August approaches
there is Spam in the kitchen
fireflies in aspic

Crisp, thick slabs of Spam
twin pale moons of frying eggs
Aphrodite dines

Basking in the rush
of the Spam can's blue shadow
now she's satisfied

0 Like
Log in to rate
0 Dislike