In a trance I reside,
blind without my cave and useless
without my unfolded shoelace temper tantrums.
I would skate
if momentum provided the pleasure a tether
I pull on restraints, gnash teeth,
where I thought was appropriate
for a creature of my caliber. But
there’s always room
for an unexpected curse
and a living room
comprised of nothing
Didn’t the union
of our cat
with our possum hold us
all to a higher standard?
Under all this high pressure
and performance constraints,
we can reach for our goblets
and salute to our health.
That’s all we ever seem
to have going for us anyhow.
Skin of a boa constrictor left dangling on a branch in the twilight of the twenty-third week of the fifty-sixth year of our Lord holds its hollow scales, petrified of drying up in the glare of tomorrow’s sun, that chapping tyrant.
Lord almighty, I kicked up a rally.
You’ll have to forgive me for being so quaint.
My oversized novelty carnival stand
just collapsed in the middle of Mardi Gras.
Now what am I going to do?
I can’t very well walk to the old police station,
they’ll laugh at my shirt and applaud for the stupid.
They’ll applaud for the stupid is what they’ll do
and I can’t have that, Lord almighty.
For all I know, we could be tossed aside
for a hungry young magnet eater
drenched in blue cheese
with a sprig of parsley
and a dash of pepper.
Too edible to laugh at,
too deplorable to eat.
Only the richest of kings
a meal of such grandiose proportions.
“Yeah, the marmot’s a little shaggy. So what? No skin off your ass.” Harold kicked the can down the road, glaring at Rhonda all the while.
“You are rude. The marmot needs a clipping ASAP and you don’t even care.” Rhonda flushed with righteous indignation, the color of kool aid. She fixed her vision on the can Harold was kicking.
“As I’ve said a hundred times, the marmot is fine. End of story.” The can was getting quite dented, a standard aluminum soda can that doesn’t have the protection necessary to shield from foot contact.
“This isn’t a story. What is this la-la land you inhabit?” She was still transfixed on the can and getting rather tormented by the fact that this narrative could indeed morph into an epic tale the world has never yet seen.
“Everything’s a story. Most of them get lost because nobody wrote them down.” He stopped kicking the can and looked at Rhonda. “I don’t have a pen.”
“So now what do we do? Find a pen? That would make a great story.”
Harold had the look of a toddler who just learned his first swear word. “You’re right.”
“We’re making a story now? I thought we were just kicking that can!” Gesturing to the can with her left hand, Rhonda choked back tears (fake or genuine, she wasn’t sure), hoping to get out of another half-baked idea that Harold always seemed to be coming up with these days.