I walk out
into the street
pouring ranch dressing.
I walk into the street,
an open bottle of ranch dressing wedged in my armpit.
I bought this bottle today, or yesterday, or last week.
Today, I cracked it open.
The bottle is tilted and the dressing pours freely, smoothly, behind me.
I pour eleven and a half ounces of dressing from a twelve-ounce bottle.
For a while, the stream is steady. The rest
dribbles.
Some drips hit my
pants.
I don't like the smell of ranch dressing on
food.
I like the smell of ranch dressing on
pavement.
I enjoy pouring its contents, a bottle's contents.
I enjoy pouring them through the
air.
I enjoy having them on the
ground.
It is not a waste. I don't like the taste.
(I think of an emptied ranch-dressing bottle as an empty model house.
Someone has hired an interior decorator to decorate the house to paint its walls and ceiling and floor with ranch dressing.
Or: someone has entrusted the house to a friend, and the friend has sprayed every surface with ranch dressing and then abandoned the premises.)
This is my favorite way to enjoy ranch dressing:
To walk into the street
with a full bottle wedged sideways in my armpit
and let the dressing pour until the bottle is full of outside air.
When I pour the dressing out of its bottle, I don't drizzle it.
I don't dump it or force it.
I let the dressing pour in a steady cream ribbon, a quiet white velvet stream.
I am a car, and the bottle is my muffler.
The ranch dressing is a fluid porcelain exhaust.
I don't like the taste of ranch dressing, but I search for a bottle in the supermarket.
If I can't find it, I get help.
I buy a bottle.
I've never liked the taste and I never liked the smell of ranch dressing
until I tucked a bottle in my armpit
and unscrewed the cap
and walked into the street.
into the street
pouring ranch dressing.
I walk into the street,
an open bottle of ranch dressing wedged in my armpit.
I bought this bottle today, or yesterday, or last week.
Today, I cracked it open.
The bottle is tilted and the dressing pours freely, smoothly, behind me.
I pour eleven and a half ounces of dressing from a twelve-ounce bottle.
For a while, the stream is steady. The rest
dribbles.
Some drips hit my
pants.
I don't like the smell of ranch dressing on
food.
I like the smell of ranch dressing on
pavement.
I enjoy pouring its contents, a bottle's contents.
I enjoy pouring them through the
air.
I enjoy having them on the
ground.
It is not a waste. I don't like the taste.
(I think of an emptied ranch-dressing bottle as an empty model house.
Someone has hired an interior decorator to decorate the house to paint its walls and ceiling and floor with ranch dressing.
Or: someone has entrusted the house to a friend, and the friend has sprayed every surface with ranch dressing and then abandoned the premises.)
This is my favorite way to enjoy ranch dressing:
To walk into the street
with a full bottle wedged sideways in my armpit
and let the dressing pour until the bottle is full of outside air.
When I pour the dressing out of its bottle, I don't drizzle it.
I don't dump it or force it.
I let the dressing pour in a steady cream ribbon, a quiet white velvet stream.
I am a car, and the bottle is my muffler.
The ranch dressing is a fluid porcelain exhaust.
I don't like the taste of ranch dressing, but I search for a bottle in the supermarket.
If I can't find it, I get help.
I buy a bottle.
I've never liked the taste and I never liked the smell of ranch dressing
until I tucked a bottle in my armpit
and unscrewed the cap
and walked into the street.
You could be a rabbit, the bottle could be your rear end, and the ranch dressing could be rabbit droppings.
Publicado por: aulden timmer | 07/12/10 en 15:42
Love it.
Publicado por: Abbi Crutchfield | 15/06/11 en 16:42