As the Weed Eater Turns

Low octane paranoia standing in my intestines. Nothing that can’t be assuaged by a deep existential exhale. My breath reeks of corn chips, coffee and cigarettes. Possibly rivaling Corn Nuts, the decomposing dog someone heaved into a garbage bag, dropped into a 5 gallon bucket and relocated to the middle of the alley behind my house. Flies pop the sack like steady rain, stuffed insensate with good old Corn Nuts. I say dog because the weight feels right when I poke it with a stick.  I can't actually see what's inside the bag. It could be a human leg.  I opt for animal control over 911 because I am not a slave to fancy. Odds are it's a dog. I wouldn’t bet its real name was Corn Nuts either. I named it in honor of the snack that smells bad.  Like my breath. That possibly my breath smells as bad as that carcass out back?   That's not even close to the truth. An exaggeration that serves no other purpose than to draw attention to the weight and inconvenience of death.