Poetic Reflections: Holey cow!

What if, instead of holy, cows were holey? If the black spots on the average dairy breed were empty spaces rather than splotches? Where might the rest of the cow be? Would these pieces just pop out like donut holes and roll away? Or would they sprout into new cows once they hit the ground? Perhaps they would remain that size, a herd of Mini-Holsteins grazing at the hooves of the normal ones. Maybe they’d scuttle off in search of greener pastures to avoid being trampled and squashed by accident to cow pies, then sizzled and slapped between the halves of buns. Or to evade getting rounded up for sale in curio shoppes, as trinket cows and purse pets for wealthy ladies. I can just imagine it. Yes, my mind does ponder the strangest things.

Might it be that a holey cow is a metaphor? The embodiment of optimism and pessimism, like a half-filled cup of milk? Could it symbolize the positive and negative aspects of our perspective? Could it even represent some deeper significance, an esoteric principle reserved for those wearing a special type of glasses? Yes, I believe it has something to do with signocology or reading the map of the stars. Oh snap, I’ve figured it out! Of course, it’s so obvious! A holey cow would produce Swiss Cheese. There you go.

Now that I have practically solved the mysteries of the universe, I must contemplate a topic for this column. It has to be about something. I’ve already done one or two about nothing. Soooooo then, hmmmm, what to do, what to do . . . . . . .?

Yep. Waiting for an answer.

Still waiting.

Waiting here.

Uh-huh, you guessed it. Waiting.

What? You’re waiting for me to quit waiting and answer the question of what to do? How should I know? I was asking you!

Have you ever wondered how someone can draw a blank? I wonder that a lot.

The silence is echoing, you just can’t hear it. I think it has made you deaf. But don’t mind me. I am not myself. I’m not sure who I am except that it’s not me. It could be anyone else, I suppose. That can happen. Especially to me.

I also think I may have injured my sacroliliac, a part I’m told most people do not have. I happen to have one, which makes me pretty special. It is very useful too — keeping my sangfroidity in balance, my larnyx in tune, for bowing and scraping to my temple lobes. It enables me to fold at the waist, which comes in handy when burying your head in sand or counting on one’s toes. But it is tricky to write or maintain coherence aforethought without distraction. I tried putting a bandaid on it, but that keeps coming off. I have even attempted to X-ray the part but was informed they couldn’t find it. So next I will smear gooseberry jam on the thing and make a toast to the moon before the cow jumps over it and a pack of greedy blind mice start gobbling the cheese. If that doesn’t work, I will be at my wit’s end and hopefully not have to worry about it anymore. If you’ve ever stubbed your toe, I’m sure you can sympathize. Not that this is like that, but I’m sure the experience has made you a more sympathetic person.

We are all shaped by our course through life, just as the rock walls of a canyon are shaped by the river that carves through it or the Silly Putty is molded by the fey fickle fingers and thumbs of Fate. Even as a holey cow might be perforated by a cosmic hole-punch.

There, now that I have waned and waxed profound, on with the poems! I have no idea what they will be about, and that is your fault. Tisk, tisk . . .