Chief garbage taster as fifth grade Halloween gag

at Henry Kline Boyer Elementary School

interestingly enough landed me a grubhub grab bag.

I rooted thru poetry anthology of mine,

and came across an unpublished poem

by one obscure poet (me), whose trademark

wit and wisdom hallmark

cardinal characteristics

of posthumous fame and fortune

largesse most likely

tabby bestowed upon grand kittens -

appended courtesy Facebook

since none of my two (both

twenty something aged) darling daughters

opted to be fruitful and multiply.

 

Courtesy brainchild of dear old dad

(actually when alive

and in his prime, he happened to be spunky

as an overgrown lad),

unanimous assent between him and mother

(she also when young, his junior by a tad)

both agreed their quiet natured son

(yours truly plus younger sister)

best be outfitted as rubbish.

 

Anyway, as a Halloween costume,

one year during early grade school,

my father got the brilliant idea

for his sole son to be dressed

with one of a kind getup.

 

Missus Shaner – long since gone to dust

(the talon clawed, shriveled

relic of a dinosaur,

who taught fifth grade)

gave me first prize,

and subsequently felt so convinced

about authenticity of this kid

being “privileged white trash”,

she notified another kid

dressed as a janitor

to dispense with me

in the school dumpster.

 

The sanitation disposal company

drove me (and subsequently

dumped yours truly

among the real rubbish

in the dumpster)

to nearest landfill

loaded with all kinds of junk

such as food scraps, recyclables,

and soiled diapers.

 

Over a short span of time,

the detritus commingled

into one noxious brew

of a despicable fly haven,

whereby jiggling lifelike maggots,

jumpstarted, lunched, and nursed putrescence

re: reeking and teeming vibrantly

with yum zuck for a swamp thing,

I seemed to be metamorphosed

into sewer rat as if by some cruel hoax.

Nothing prepared, neither sickened

nor violated senses

of smell, sight, taste, and touch

to the maximum factor

intolerant of odoriferous odious stench.

 

Each pestilential assault

issued an appalling refrain

courtesy Fiona Apple's:

The Idler Wheel Is Wiser

than the Driver of the Screw

and Whipping Cords Will Serve You

More than Ropes Will Ever Do.

 

Before mine myopic bespectacled eyes

(smarting from constant comet drubbing irritants

(which glasses – rather bifocals –

caked with smudge good as naught),

stayed wide shut from inundation

of said corrosive gaseous shaped

oxbow lake comprising wreath like wisps.

 

Liberty vis a vis in sight

envisioned visibly threatened offshoots

of tendril spikes; snaking sneakily,

sordidly slithering silently,

yet straightaway as a scene

from some spooky sideshow

or “haunted house”.

 

This ugly slop

splashed upon mine formerly

pristine academic uniform

appeared near identical

to the grub hub (the lunch lady served)

splattered sundry speckles

sans sundry detritus,

which found me writhing with nausea.

 

Thee nasty muck and mire

found this formerly introverted boy

transformed into a sponge bobbing

squarely panting creature

from the black lagoon,

whose skinny sea legs

sought semi-solid surface

to stand upright position amidst

variegated flotsam and jetsam.

 

Dishabille appearance acquired

a fresh splattered coat of rancid slimy

green eggs and ham with bacon

covered gangly arms

(among other bit pieces of moldy clothes,

food and iconic library oddment)

ricocheted unpredictably as trash truck

violently shook up and down

all night long en route on this highway to hell

found me thunderstruck

(before being buried alive in Moyer’s Dump),

which toxic brew would be declared

a SuperFund Site

and shuttered in the near future.

 

Once Robert Hall wardrobe

affixed with a capital one fancy feast

of grateful dead roadkill,

kickstarter from some automotive contraption,

and plenti of fish heads

(with thine spongy bobbing square pants

trimmed with lovely bones),

I felt indistinguishable

from regular riffraff riding shotgun.

 

When random trucker parked and stopped,

the awful bin laden made ready

to empty contents within the mountain

of olfactory noxious material.

 

A thought occurred,

that now might be the golden

(or rather gook steeped) opportunity

to extricate myself

from morass of mish mashed,

spud nicked mine

linkedin kindled juggernaut,

icky first class bric a brac.