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A Real Porker

Sad cat in a fat suit behaving like a pig
and the fair is only a few days away.
There’s little time to learn how to grunt properly,
and a spirited wallow in the mud would prove
costly in the long run. Still, a few faked lines
might do, might come in handy if the visitors
begin to doubt the cat is a real porker.
The gig will pay better than that madcap
afternoon twirling around in a spacesuit
like it was a helium balloon . . .
and that painful Sunday at the end of
Lent when a lingering fart drifted through
the pews — such gassy repentance.
Everyone who wanders into the fair expects
some genuine connection with farm animals
even while they stuff themselves with
unearthly concoctions — pine-flavored shakes
and chocolate-dipped bacon. So sad cat
in a fat suit can’t blow it, can’t rely
on the Lord of All Good Pigs to intercede
and handle the complaints as they come in.
A certain feline instinct kicks in that lets
sad cat land on all four feet. No matter
what the situation, there will be a positive
outcome. It’s just the way that cats are prone
to think. They don’t need anybody else.
They’ve got gravity working for them.

Gold Medals

What event would the committee have to
approve in order for me to win
the Olympic gold? I am tempted to make
a list, but who am I fooling? There are only
two categories. One is for things I have
naturally done all my life like breathing.
But there are so many different types.
Should I specialize in the rapid pant or
the held breath? Or perhaps a variant
like number of words burped from one gulp
of air. No doubt a cadre of boors and tuba
players would best me in that. I’d need to
rely on a special inbred talent, such as
recognizing baseball cards from the seventies.
For some reason, it’s impossible for me
to detach the names from the faces of
Roy White, Randy Hundley, Paul Blair and
Gary Nolan. No one should be forced to
know that, and no one is. My singular
greatness could take flight. That’s the other
area where I might excel—acts that nobody
bothers with anymore. I’m thinking
competitive leafraking to open up the
Fall Games. In the kingdom and era of
the blowers, I could seize the day.
But could I set the world record? I’d have to
go for something more obscure to achieve
that, something like consecutive days
crapping in the same place (while on a leash).
My dog would be unbeatable at that.
As long as they didn’t open up the games
to animals, I’d stand a fighting chance.
I’d have to override my desire to mix it up.
I’d need to rely on my pure will to the familiar.
No challenges or obstacles to overcome,
just the same old same old announcing
itself in me. I’d be the everyday hero
I was told kids should emulate. My ordinary
powers would vanquish the elites taking
shape on the publicity machines. My image
might live in just a single mind, a private
Olympics that mimics the ones in
the big cities, which need losers
as much as they need winners.

Sheep Economy

After the political round-up is done,
and the TV headed into cool down,
I ask myself where all the good men
have gone. Instead the screen fills up
with all these lawyers litigating in crisis.
Why can’t we elect a shepherd standing
in front of the throngs with his crook,
playing his shawm during the inauguration?
But Americans don’t wear wool and don’t eat
lamb, not since its soldiers came back from
overseas and endured all that tin can mutton.
The number of sheep on the feedlot has been
falling since then—with New Zealand
picking up the slack. Now there’s this
proposal to rope off Wyoming and give it
to new immigrants, let them ring in
the renaissance of mutton, a re-take on
the sheep economy. Forty acres and
a ram and ewe—it’s something the new
shepherd president could get behind.
Think of all those culinary delights headed
for the heartland: Abgoosht, Tevapi, Dalcha,
Jamalah, Khorkhog, Macon, Mixiote, Drob,
Pinnekjøff, Paomo, Sajji, Navarin, Wazwan.
Ah, the growlings are growing even as
the borders take shape. But twenty years
on will they stay down on the farm?
Won’t they want to join in the highway herd
to work while the dogs of finance
keep nipping at the heels and even the brash
tend to the well-worn path? Everyone goes
where the money flows, and it’s doled out along
the fenceline and under the covered bunk.
See the white and black-faced ones fighting
off parasites? The shearsman is waiting,
but he’s better than the butcher. Take heed,
little bright-eyed one, call out to all the others . . .
Give me liberty or give me the last bleat.

ABOUT THE ARTIST

Tim Kahl [http://www.timkahl.com] [https://soundcloud.com/tnklbnny] is the author of six books of poems, most recently Omnishambles (Bald Trickster, 2019), California Sijo (Bald Trickster, 2022) and Drips, Spills, Bursts, Tangles, and Washes (Cold River Press, 2024). He is also an editor of Clade Song [http://www.cladesong.com]. He builds flutes, plays them and plays guitars, ukuleles, charangos and cavaquinhos as well. He currently teaches at California State University, Sacramento, where he sings lieder while walking on campus between classes.