Dry as a Bone.

by Jason Nelson

Something is wrong with my skeleton. It seems sadder than usual,

complaining, as it does, about

income taxes and molecular density. But I’m puzzled. No, my body isn’t

composed of ill-fitting notes and

pictured cardboard. Although with those amazing qualities, I could get a

job lickatee split. My skeleton’s in

the closet, and the door, the closet door just to be clear but not

invisible, is jammed. You might be expecting

me to say something about sexuality or past demons or heavy pastries. And

while I enjoy the occasional Pound

Cake after making the humpity-hump with Dobermans, talking about bestiality

is only a diversion. The real issue

here is sorrow, my muscle’s anchoring system of knitted calcium string’s

sad, sad feelings. There is a place

where all skeletons aren’t deficient in the happy, happy arts. A place

where bones can discuss their problems with

water. You see, water is nice. It provides my bones a place to hide, and

sells oxygen to fish for cheap.