Diet Plan

Denied membership in the exclusive club of the deceased, I resolve to do away with wings, keeping only the wingbones, like a songbird in August half-naked from the molt. Ditto with hams & hambones, which are only fit for split pea soup. Human beings are the other white meat; pork is a poor substitute. I resolve to give up bread & salt & the speaking of truth or its reasonable facsimiles. Too many calories. Bad for the blood pressure. I’m through with all caresses, except for the caress of the knife, which is so good at making a mouth that can’t talk back. I’m swearing off history with its urgent ticking, like untrimmed toenails clicking against the sidewalk. I want to live in the perpetual present otherwise known as wartime, so I need to get lean & mean as the old barn cat trotting up the gravel driveway in the rain, skinny enough to fit between the drops of God’s own ordnance.