Slim Jim


  Into the mouths of men go these thin red rods: 
                                                Slim Jim.

  Chaw.     The texture of unshredded tobacco. 

A texture that makes 
                     a dog 	
                           out of you. Shrunken skin 

grips tight the peppery sheath 
    of meat, stiff and straight. 
    At each truck stop, lit so stark 
    & lonely, 
wakefully erect: Slim Jim.

Lean. Stripped and cut 
from fat—it is the fat that rots, 
that kills—it is the muscle that lives, 
red 
    &lean. The rippling cords arrayed, 

military posture,
made of what makes you move, 
makes an animal move. 
All kinds of animal: 
beef, pork, chicken, 
mechanically separated, 
made wet, pressed && squeezed, 
made hot, made tight, 
then wrapped in plastic. Safe.

Ready for an anonymous late night cruiser, 
gruff&silent, to sate their hunger—

                           that stranger’s hand, 
                                 sweat-slick from wheel gripping, 
                                 becomes a liberator. 
                  Paid for, shucked, and stolen to a 
                                     hot and humming cab, 
                                     where smells of man and meat 
                                     combine in private. 
                              Nighttime desperation,

           a fumbling key and then
quiet rumble growling, clutch shoved, 
the shifting stick pulled and locked, 
matched, 
           free floating teeth of gears 
slipping entwined until clutch releases; 
frictive plate. 
Recruiting pistons newly freed 
from palletized tons. 
           Now roar 
as red rod stands peeled & raw 
for teeth to 
           chaw 
           and rend. 


By bite and mile 
to heavy throat & gut, be gone. 
Be leaner still in every death. 
Become the man that now rolls, 
                         roll long, 
                           roll home Slim Jim.