Midas Gutz

Another missing number in the jungle.
Turned up with nothing but a loin cloth to protect your tender penis from what's danger in the wild life.

Your human nose making the least of all scent.
Gone dumb to the dynamics of clean air.
Your bare feet cringing against the unkempt forest floor.

Minutes ago, you'd been licking brass knuckle and soaking up satellite feed.
Being crowned this year's Champio-King.
Looking good-bad after a beautiful thing.

Big winner of the only, and annual, serious SERIOUS guts competition.
(Sponsored in part, of course, by the pain reliever people and the heads of music television.)

Yes, you and ten other tough guys.
Slit smiles against your then-perfectly sturdy stomachs
And spread your large intestines boldly out against a coated-white poker table.
The starter pistol barked and each contestant commenced.

To carefully comb their own eager entrails,
From behind the one-way wall of mirrored eye wear.
Everyone a hopeful, breathing heavy.
Sifting through their mortal coil with their finger tips
For the most intimidating lengths of well-sculpted in prime time stomach links.

Every so often,
In the name of health,
An executioner-capped usher struts about the gut-covered table
Misting everyone's exposed and heaving organs with a modified and fancy water pistol.

As always, this year's celebrity judges are only of the most incredible persuasion:
Charles Bronson's angry and gay only-daughter,
Ice Cube back from when he was hard,
And a framed eight-by-ten of Joe Namath's knee caps.

And, because you won,
They stitch up your open abdomen first,
Gave you a nice Rambo knife, some choice cigarettes,
And cut you loose in the Ozarks.

The question being not "if"
But "when" you will kill for your next meal.

(And besides, you've never gone missing before.)

In one month's time,
They anticipate your turning up in the lap of the Lincoln Memorial
Wearing the stripped-and-cured flesh of another white rapper.
Lovers and mothers the last thing on your mind.
Raw and reborn in the kill as the red carpets go wild.

The VICE Magazine people,
Serving up a hard bucket of the most happening blood,
Feeding a spit-roast pig in your honor.
Kissing the wind.
Calling you boss.
Their phantom hearts clinking,
Half-empty,
In the leftover, and once-humored,
Still, arrogant air.