When the fearless hunter first wakes up, he thinks
it’s going to be a great day, as filled with possibility
as the forest with rabbits and ducks, but by ten
he’s still in bed, wrapped up in blankets
like a weenie in bacon. He stares at the celluloid ceiling and realizes
that his early good mood was left over from Tuesday,
when he got so much done: a great day, he shot
Daffy Duck and made his beak spin, harassed Porky Pig
for wearing only a vest while his bare ass hangs loose,
cleaned his twelve-gauge, loaded it with buckshot, and all by noon.
All day he went about his business, not so much funny business
as whimsical, and last night, he and Sylvester went running where
the scenery keeps repeating—a tree, a bush, a tree, a bush, a tree…
This morning nothing flips his switch.
The world is a deserted hunting lodge, a roach-infested dump that smells like feet.
Sylvester’s off trying to eat an old lady’s bird, Yosemite Sam’s at a rodeo,
and the rest of the characters are busy chasing each other —
running into walls, falling off cliffs. Elmer can barely move,
he does not want to move. Does the Road Runner ever feel this
listlessness, does he ever want to lie down and just stare,
no longer caring about rocket-propelled predators, tired of all the hurry?
Does Wile E. Coyote, flattened by a boulder, ever think, fuck it,
screw the scrawny bird, who gives a shit?
Elmer thinks maybe he’ll watch an old Betty Boop flick,
that chick can sing. He wishes someone
would bring him a cheeseburger with bacon, pickles, onions and fries
or some salted peanuts and beer—
maybe Foghorn Leghorn will bring him a pizza. Nothing will be delivered.
He hears far off in the painted woods a rabbit yelling “What’s up Doc?”
the insane “woo-hoo-woo-hoo-woo-hoo” of a black duck baiting him to act—
those wowsy wascals again—but no, he will not move.
Let this Loony Toon play out without him, let them all go
suck an egg. He can live without this slapstick shit.
He thinks.
E J Barron
E J Barron 