Vol. 2, No. 2: We Don’t Care Who Wins photo

CarvingDaniel Miller

I skate the ribcage of a giant until the police show up or I fall to my death, the costae a transition. Without the coping, my trucks wear away at the soft bone, and when the bonemeal accumulates in small mounds at the base of the rib, the point in which the ribcage connects to the vertebral column, I make a wish and blow.  The dust rains down on the Earth, fertilizes the soil.  In this way, I consider, I am doing my part to save the environment.

My wish is simple, but I know the rules: if I tell, it won’t come true, so I keep it to myself.  I carve the giant’s eye socket, the inside of the zygomatic bone, my wheels gliding over the graffitied names of friends and lovers.  I drop in from the top of the hipbone—os coxae—and bomb the femur.  I bluntslide the giant’s metatarsals, I kickflip over its phalanges.  I tre flip from maxilla to maxilla, over the heart shaped gap in the giant’s skull, my back foot scooping the board’s tail, my front foot flicking up. 

When the sun sets, the colossal skeleton glows blue in the moonlight. In time the collagen in the giant’s bones will break down, will become brittle.  The soil will swallow the remains, will break them down further, and what grows next will be nurtured by the provided calcium, by the increase of phosphorous.  I think about my wish and how someday, my bones will do the same.