I HURL HOSTESS CUPCAKES JUST TO HEAR THE SPLAT!

I HURL HOSTESS CUPCAKES JUST TO HEAR THE SPLAT!

and to revel in the visual display, of course:
dark chocolate explosion decorating white walls,
the symbol of preservatives unhinged and smeared
with whatever force I choose to use,

the white eye at the center, broken like an egg yolk,
oozing its creamy pupil pus that ants dream of devouring-
BULLSEYE! my inner voice screams with childlike joy
as I dedicate my actions to the man in the news story,
the Hostess employee who had been
with the company so long, doing the same job,
day in, day out, making nineteen bucks an hour,
artfully dripping the white frosting curlicues
down the dark face of cupcake
before machines took away his livelihood

and I imagine how he would feel to hear
the swoosh of cake through air
and soft thud, say it, SPLAT!
of snack and drywall
mess, mess, mess
and his delicate squiggle
dangling like a tiny lash
on the lid of the eye.

There is often indescribable beauty
in acts of madness,
day in, day out,
painting curves on chocolate canvas
year in, year out,
the same pattern mocking,
begging to be hurled
at the nearest flat surface.
Preferably,
white.

©1998 William Dickenson Cohen