Slim Jim

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.