When bowling pins die, the blameless ones
—the pins that never shirked front line duty,
who never once flinched the moment before the ball struck—
are selected by the Great Pin Setter in the Sky,
according to His awful whim,
and refashioned into coke bottles,
the old-fashioned kind made of glass.The battered old pins
are given a moment to revel
in their new, softly feminine forms,
in their delightful lightness and hollow fragility,
in their cerulean translucence…
and then they are returned to the material plane,
filled with sticky sweet fluids,
and sealed.After weeks, or even months, of girlish longing
the day comes when they are selected for Consumption.
Instead of being bashed aside by eight pound spheres of resin,
they are lifted up and held gently, deftly circumcised,
and their sugary essence is slowly, appreciatively,
sucked out of them.The experience, according to those who have experienced both,
is very like a kundalini awakening.
When Bowling Pins Die
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