Dry as a Bone.
by Jason Nelson
Something is wrong with my skeleton. It seems sadder than usual,
complaining, as it does, about
income taxes and molecular density. But I’m puzzled. No, my body isn’t
composed of ill-fitting notes and
pictured cardboard. Although with those amazing qualities, I could get a
job lickatee split. My skeleton’s in
the closet, and the door, the closet door just to be clear but not
invisible, is jammed. You might be expecting
me to say something about sexuality or past demons or heavy pastries. And
while I enjoy the occasional Pound
Cake after making the humpity-hump with Dobermans, talking about bestiality
is only a diversion. The real issue
here is sorrow, my muscle’s anchoring system of knitted calcium string’s
sad, sad feelings. There is a place
where all skeletons aren’t deficient in the happy, happy arts. A place
where bones can discuss their problems with
water. You see, water is nice. It provides my bones a place to hide, and
sells oxygen to fish for cheap.
