midnight hunger strike
not by choice
just my kitchen contains
an excess of empty cabinent space
and I crawl to my knees
praying to Mr. Maytag
to bless me with some tasty form of nourishment
that will satisfy the bubbling ulcer
that demands to be fed
I muster up my last bit of energy
to open the refrigerator door
only to find, the gods to be unkind
and cheerfully changed my fridge
into some sort of chilled coffin
just one jar of expired pickles
and a few packs of Burger King ketchup
nothing that constitutes real meal
hell, nothing that even resembles a snack
that’s when it hits me
I hate pickles but love ketchup
so maybe the two will equal out
forming some new neutral substance
that I can swallow down
with a warm glass of polluted tap water
damn dominoes for their lack of late night deliveries
forcing me to this brutal choice
which I am not brave enough to eat
and I have this strange fantasy
about cattle mutilations
being caused by hungry people just like me
and slapping down some crop circles
to shift the blame on an alien conspiracy
I decide not to try this caustic creation
of ketchup covered pickles
catch my second wind
and drive to see the messiah Sam Walton
and his 24hr Wal Mart Super-Center
thank god for apples and caramel dip at 2am
chow down and munch up
to barely make it to see another day
The Emotional Delusions of a Mad Man
