reprinted with minor edits from Mandala, Vol. 11; St. Louis Park High School; May, 1979
“Thumbs, Thumbs, Thumbs?” That’s all I hear.
The monotonous, repetitive wailing cry of an armada of rancid soldiers.
Three men in Salvation Army uniforms hold me at gunpoint, commanding:
“GIVE US THE SECRET TO THE AARDVARK DANCE.”
“Will the boxstep do?” I quip.
They, with quiet, ruthless efficiency promptly blow my
“Oh life is but a dream. Shaboom, shaboom.”
I find myself a small, sterile cubicle with a
collection of Bonnie Bell Lint Remover hanging
from the ceiling.
“Where are we?” says a grotesque, genderless creature.
“Is that Reynolds Wrap in your hand, Squire?” replies
one of the air conditioners.
Back at home, mama’s fixing her tank.
“Sold any of your solar-powered lawn mowers today?” I offer.
“Agghh, kids,” she replies, licking her curry-stained fingers.
Whilst reading my edition of Gardening for the Hard of Hearing, Dad rolls in a pile of orange peels.
Then, a distant, shrieking voice is heard from
Lawrence’s bedroom. “What? We have no telephone