The world's lowest art form
Meet the pigku. Same as a haiku, just with a silly theme.
A couple of weeks ago, I rambled on about the lonely nighttime life of a pig tracker, a topic that will surely be revisited. (Bail out now! Or don’t!)
Amid all the thrilling solitude, I’ve found ways to entertain myself. An easy one is taking a walkabout while waiting out a particularly slow-to-arrive pig. Just set the car in park, keep it in view, but wander off down a dirt road or into a right-of-way sliced through the surrounding emptiness.
Another is writing poetry. I should say, before this gets too deep, that I know far too many poets of high skill and repute to position myself as someone who does what they do. I have one published poem to my name, a number that’s unlikely to climb.
I am, however, a great enthusiast of the 5-7-5 haiku form, which I have filched to write my own brand of pipeline-intensive poetry. I call it the pigku, an art form so low, it’s subterranean (much like the pig from which it borrows its themes).
The whole “pig” thing is a puzzlement, by the way. For those uninitiated in the ways of liquid energy delivery, the word exists wholly in the province of farm animals and breakfast foods. When my wife and I were acquiring a mortgage in Maine, the broker we worked with (the great Tori Doucette, should you ever have need of such services there) asked me at one point how I would replace that portion of our income in Maine.
Me: “I’ll keep pig tracking.”
Her: “Yeah, but once you’re living here?”
Me: “Sure.”
Her: “You’re going to run a pig farm?”
Me: “No.”
A short, focused description of the work made it clear, and we laughed about it afterward, but let’s face it: Schoolteachers don’t face these explanatory hurdles. Nor do bankers or architects or plumbers or electricians or truck drivers or phlebotomists. (Well, maybe phlebotomists do.)
I must concede that the pigku, for all its literary lowliness, rarely provides much clarity about the job to which it is attached. Instead, I piggyback (get it?) on the inherent confusion and rip on places and environments and the circumstances of work and, sometimes, even delicious breakfast meats.
Want a sampler? Keep reading.
January 8, 2017
Minot? Hey, why not?
The pig will run; I'll have fun
On my frozen ass
March 22, 2017
The boss man tells us
“No work today, boys, enjoy
exotic Minot”
February 24, 2017
A black, moonless night
The piggy moans from the pipe
It's cold as balls, too
August 19, 2019
Into Wisconsin
Under the cover of night
Some pork with my cheese
November 29, 2017 (nearing Illinois)
Another half day
Is about to be served up
Oh, Romeoville ...
March 6, 2019
Buffalo, big boy
And only getting bigger
Mighty Taco's here
September 29, 2017
Buffalo, New York
Where the pursuit of pork meets
Genesee cream ale
July 23, 2017
I'm a peaceful man
But I will kill mosquitoes
With impunity