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.