Sketches of Pancho

1

Buried perhaps?
In a shallow grave or
a not so shallow one
underneath a slab of concrete?
Or perhaps
lost, in a grotto, a hole
someplace far away with stalagmites?
Or a far, far away land
maybe
with free-range chickens
and pork
fed on chestnuts and warm milk …

2

Pancho loved to eat,
he was a large man,
large as a barge,
so large that he stretched any room
he’d walk into, from inside out, he
overtook the air around him
compressed the breathable space
with his presence.

Pancho couldn’t help himself:

He loved to eat.

3 – Slingshooter

I was raised an egg-head.
Am now a lamppost.
Am planning on taking my retirement
inside an old smelly shoe-box
floating through outer space
heading towards Neptune
and beyond:
digitized, caramelized, and electrified …

Fire me away, baby,
into the computerized Far West.

4 – Small Treasure

Smuggled
after a long journey
finally here.

Pancho had forced himself
to stay away
until that morning, waking up
standing in his kitchen, scratching
his balls,
he decided:
This was the morning to be.

Inside the cold box
his latest treasure
rested,
at the risk of many lives,
jail time,
years of trial dates and lawyers;
he had done it.

Humble object, really:

A small wooden box,
round in shape
made of thin material.
It had a lid as deep
as the bottom part
just a little bigger
in circumference
for a tight fit.
The picture of cow and a farm
on the label.
It had small staples
holding its thin
cardboard-like walls
together.

The contents were wrapped
in white greasy paper, a bit
like butcher’s paper with two layers,
and carefully encased to a very snug fit.

The center was soft
to the touch.

Pancho was pushing down
with his right thumb
gently feeling the level of softness.

The sweet smell of a football player’s socks
slowly made its way to Pancho’s nose.

Ahh!
Penisilium Candidum, Camemberti!

copyright 2009 © F.K. Needles — all rights reserved