When I hold a steak knife;
Just an ordinary,
stainless serrated sort—
Even the one with a plain
plastic black handle. YEAH.
When I grip this in my fist
and saw my meal in half—
I think about IT;
Going back there—
and taking a couple knives
I would be king
of the cave man.
They would call me,
“He who fall from sky
with magic stabby—“
or maybe just call me
“OOGGGH,” for short.
The ‘H’ is silent, of course.
But then I think about the stink
that must be a cave woman.
AND YOU JUST KNOW
they would be ALL— UP AND ON— the Steak Knife Guy.
NOT SO BAD, RIGHT?
But I bet they rub pig fat
or sheep piss all over themselves,
BELIEVING it did something GOOD
for their skin.
OR good for the hunt.
OR just good for a fuck.
SHIT, if modern chicks have only evolved enough
to dress in mud, berries, and eggs,
I PUKE thinking what the AVON lady
comes knocking with at my limestone door.
“HERE WE GO LADIES, FRESHLY SHAT MASTADON DUNG—
AND BULL BLADDERS TO HELP KEEP THAT MOISTURE IN.”
So alright, we’re in agreement.
I won’t ONLY bring the knives,
but also bottles of shampoo
and free samples of perfume.
BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE.
I’ll even throw in space-age nylon
for those hot nights on Pangaea.
And for the cave man who has a rock or stick
for every occasion?
How about a nice messenger tote?
STOP TWISTING MY ARM.
For a limited time only,
I will travel back in time
and as an added bonus,
teleport two rolls of toilet paper—
COUNT THEM, TWO—
for every cave dweller who joins me.
TWO PLY— WITH LOTION! BUT THAT’S IT!
THAT’S IT, that’s the best I can do.
KING OF THE CAVE MAN, whoop-dee-dooh.
But I gotta tell you now—
my steak has gotten cold,
waiting for me to write this poem.
I suppose I should get back to IT,
but I don’t dare pick up that knife.
I’ll only get going again, writing.
So, yeah, please pardon me
while I go gnaw on my meat
with my bare hands.
King of the cave man—
or just plain mad.