Coyote walks through The Presidio park with a candy bar in his hands. As he licks chocolate off his furry fingers, he drops the candy wrapper in the shadow of eucalyptus bark. A woman ambling by gawks at the plastic falling through redwood air.
“Pick that up! A Coyote shouldnβt litter!” “Well Iβll pop off my head. I wonβt be Coyote anymore. Then I can litter.” Coyote rips his head off his body. “Youβre still Coyote. Youβre just holding your head like a basketball.” “Iβll peel off my Coyote fur.” Coyote disrobes himself like a tangerine. “So youβre a naked Coyote. A naked Coyote shouldnβt litter.” “Iβll take out my heart.” Coyote throws his heart into a rose garden. The organ got lost in an ocean of red. “A heartless Coyote is still a Coyote,” the woman yelps. “I got it β Iβll cut out my brain.”
Coyote runs his consciousness over to a hungry homeless man living in a tent. “I just gave that man his dinner. Iβm no longer Coyote. I can litter now.” “Yes, your carcass is now littering the forest. Scavengers are circling fresh trash.”