I say, that was quite the stimulating conversation. Let’s have another in due time, shall we? Myes, that would be lovely. Quite lovely indeed, though I do wonder as to the suspicious nature of your scarf. I hate to say it, but your scarf appears to be made of live pigeons. Oh, that’s on purpose? Well, I applaud the originality, though it surely doesn’t limit the number of diseases you may experience as you live the rest of your life. Pardon me while I make an excuse to get away from you.
I heard a jumbled tango champion
stumble on a feathered turtle,
and judging from my confusion,
I had quite a bit to reflect upon.
It felt like a schizoid fragrance,
but I hadn’t come to my senses
until it was too late to tell–
No matter, we all do what we wanna do
and let it float insane (only for a time).
Then we fold it back and stuff it in our pockets.
Taking a test really only means that you have the pilgrims to thank for your present state of malaise. Merit-based systems come about as a means for overcompensation for the lack of otherwise sensual behavior that would be prized by our species’ most relevant ancestors (you know, the few dozen individuals who managed to survive drought and famine in the motherland before finally deciding that enough was enough, subsequently migrating northward, settling what is presently known to be Europe and Asia, parting ways with those of our species who’d chosen to head south and colonize what they’d hoped to be a more verdant Africa).
My time has been taken up by too many random memories drifting past like an onion ring through a garbage disposal in the chancellor’s maid’s footservant’s second kitchen sink. Though the circumstances may unfortunately account for wind resistance, there can be no mistake: our glorified patterns for unconventional squeegee methods can only remain in vogue for a time long enough to shout blasphemy from all rooftops (aside from that meddling Johnson family’s).
It would seem as though all of everything may be seen by a significant portion of the population for any number of seasons and reasons. I can’t quite explain why, though I can hem and haw for a while until you start ignoring me. I can filibuster with the best of them when I absolutely must, so don’t make me resort to such drastic measures.
Oh no, I can see your eyes begin the glazing process! I was going to go easy on you, but you clearly deserve a harangue for the ages.
Or you can get up and leave. Yes, I suppose that’s your prerogative. Well, have a nice day.
The spacious is wasted on the species built for Spanish Inquisitions.
The fakest thing I ever saw was a walnut tree built for seventeen hard-pressed warriors on their way to a chili cook-off in Prague. Disguised to uproot and follow the horde on plastic root-looking legs, it swayed unconvincingly whilst doing so.
Underwhelmed by the chocolate cookie cutter worship, I changed my trajectory to watch the stage coach’s clip across the land our fathers’ fathers’ fathers found with our mothers’ mothers’ mothers. There’s quite the history of in-breeding in this family tree, you see.
Failing to recognize my own brilliance, I tossed every one of my ideas in the dumpster behind my apartment building. Ten minutes later, while stewing in my own existential dross, I realized that ideas don’t necessarily mean anything until they reach the right people. I jotted a note for passers-by: “Free ideas for world peace, a balanced budget, and overall better living” in large print, taped it to the front of the dumpster and found the most comfortable spot I could for watching the processional.
Through the grace of your face, I slobber all day without relief; I find that my buckets have all filled with saliva at a hearty pace, and if I’m to continue my vigil, I must enlist the assistance of a local youth who may, if I provide enough funding to guarantee a profit for this young scalawag, run down to the local bucket emporium and select two durable five-gallon polypropylene pieces.
Donate a pigeon to the Learning to Fly Foundation today, before our birds all take to the sea in the search for more plentiful food. There’s no way a pigeon would ever dip under the surface, even if all the other birds were doing it. Each flighted creature donated to our foundation will do wonders for this city’s infrastructure and self-esteem, whether or not these feathered friends contribute to anything in the way of industry. Let these winged guardians represent a token of our tireless pursuit for a more peaceful world.
Once upon a time, not too long ago, we attempted to capture the essence of total prosperity. We stopped at nothing to attain a semblance of that pipedream. After going into seventeen billion dollars of needless debt, we instead focused on the intrinsic qualities of things; we explored what differentiated them from the overwhelming majority of all other entities in the known universe. Our research mostly revolved around the acquisition of knowledge concerning the proper way to brush one’s teeth, tie one’s shoes, mow one’s lawn, etc. Through the devoted research of mundane tasks, we’ve reached the understanding that allows us to navigate the world’s blatantly obvious yet surprisingly unexcavated solutions for best living practices. No matter a person’s stature or, otherwise, rank and file status, the simplest acts are often times the most indicative of their originators’ intelligence quotients.
The pooch punted a kitten past the fence in its own original way, almost as if to say: “Hey, you’re not my cat and I don’t care for you very much.” Of course, this pooch didn’t comprehend the grave danger associated with punting this particular cat. Any other local feline would make a perfectly fine furry football, but this one happened to be the landlady’s cat (Mitsy). Mitsy let out a yowl of despair for the whole neighborhood to hear. Thankfully, our cantankerous grouch on the ground floor just so happened to be grocery shopping at the time. That pooch doesn’t know how lucky it is.
I picked a fight with the wrong inter-dimensional being today — I didn’t know whether he was coming or going.
Who put the imperial control under Farken’s watch? I understand that he could use some ego boosting, but come on! Jesus, the man lost seven of his direct reports last week! They weren’t even in battle, he just lost them on a field trip to buy galoshes for those horrendous muddy trenches (that he doesn’t know the first thing about cleaning, by the way).
Built upon prepositions and suppositions, this tempestuous piece of evidence provides no clear-cut testimony for future case proceedings. It really just stokes superstition to a raging bonfire of doubt and drunkenness. I can’t, in good conscience, let you walk away with that donut, sir. That’s all I’m trying to say.
I have begun another general collection of work that has been compiling over the past few years. I have thus far chronicled 48 previously-unpublished pieces, all of which I plan to reveal to you, my adorable readers. Since I have been able to get so far ahead of my production goals, I am now also able to provide a consistent source of stream-of-consciousness work, day-in and day-out. If you (whoever you may be) found yourself moaning about my lack of consistency and reliance on spontaneity, then you’re in luck! I haven’t decided on the exact times for my postings, but I’m sure they will be unpredictable.
Just as a sports fan religiously sets fantasy sports lineups, so shall I schedule my poetry to be revealed to the world wide web. One day I may have wordpress (oh, what a wonderful engine) post a poem at 8:22am and another at 10:39am, only to whittle away the hours until the clock strikes 3:49, when another poem is released.
Just want to keep you on your toes (and get an idea of what’s going to be coming to a monitor near you).
Y’all are the bee’s knees, by the way. I hope you know that.
Grasp unhinged oyster shell [razor] scraps, but don’t do it too tightly. Blood in the water will attract any number of predators. Well, any number aside from sharks. I mean, when was the last time you saw a shark in the kitchen sink? I suppose one of those plastic bath toys would closely resemble the real animals, but nobody in their right minds would mistake one of those things for a true man-eater.
Given the governor’s penchant for making pudding a snack of the ages, I’d say we have a fifty-fifty chance of making it out of the arena alive today. If he sells enough cups of pudding to satiate his royal pocketbook, then we may have a chance to escape without his wrath being rained down upon us. A rich king is a jovial king, I’ve always found. It’s too bad that he used his position as a public servant to prop himself on the shoulders of much greater men. I think he had an issue earlier in life that probably caused him to crave power like an addict craves heroin.
My friends here are penniless,
but that doesn’t mean anything to me
(aside from the fact that pennies are useless anyway).
A bat named Sancho
flew from roof to roof, unaware
that the roofs were even there.
What do you aim to provide, if a seventeen year-old kid can do it before you ever even thought of it? There’s no point to it then, wouldn’t you say? I mean, there’s no industry in being a has-been prodigy, ya dig? You either got it or ya don’t. The longer it takes to get that through your thick skull, the more miserable you’re gonna become. And I know, you’ll yell at me for six days, telling me that I’m wrong and you’ve always had the chance to become the next big thing. Well, have you ever proven me wrong? Sure, you’ll get up on that soapbox and give me some grandiose filibuster about the meaning of life and the philosophical necessity of achievement, fulfillment, egalitarianism and all that other bullshit, and I’m so sick of hearing it. Just because you say it a thousand times doesn’t mean it’s going to magically be proven right by the gods of redundancy. The gods of redundancy would rather be repeating themselves and giving all the luck to the Bush family.
And so for the rest of it, what we thought was the train but what we knew was the plane of existence opening before our very eyes, a sea of cauldron-inducing jackals swam in a school of mackerel, awaiting what could only be a hound dog of manly proportions. That’s right, you heard right, a hound dog of manly proportions. Whatever you may believe this dog to be, it’s truly up to the psyche, you see. Nobody, and I mean nobody, can judge alongside thee as a chaperone for the autoparts pavilion. It doesn’t work like that, you know? There’s not some formula for magically developing a character that everybody will love. Well, maybe there is, but I’m too cheap to find out how that would ever come to pass.
In order to explain myself, a croissant must be placed upon my upturned forehead for at least four minutes. Don’t ask why I need this action to transpire, just comply with my request and you will be briefed on my view of how things took such a sharp turn for the worse at Jovie’s funeral service.
–Four minutes later–
You may remove the croissant. If you’re hungry, you may eat it. I have no use for it anymore. Jovie was an angry man, so I found it fitting to bring a stink bomb to the proceedings. As they always say, he would have wanted it that way.
well wells well well with wellwater
just as well
as other well wells welling well with wellwater.
An accomplishment can turn into
a sour rattlesnake gargler
at the drop of a seventy-five gallon hat,
and I’m not too sure if I like them apples.
What we have here is a cycle doomed to repeat itself, to shrink away and outdrink itself every night until it wonders why it drank in the first place. It’s not like life is fun or anything–we have to make the best of it while it’s hanging around, you know? There’s nothing wrong with wanting to blink and be gone, but is that realistic? Where does matter go when it’s not here? It’s there, point taken, but where is there, anyway? That’s the question.
Access the place, that place you’d been a couple times before but never decided to revisit. What’s wrong with that place? Did it offend you in some fundamental way? Did it smell like cheese, knowing full well that you exclusively visit olive-scented establishments? That’s preposterous; a restaurant can’t know why a person dislikes the smell of cheese. It takes an airship to reach that decision. A restaurant is still a few steps down on the ladder. Once it gets to the next rung of testing and certifications, a restaurant can graduate to the likes of a pigeon wing sculpture, and only then will it be able to begin musing on the reason for things as they do (or do not) exist.
There are only so many ways to count your Gretchens as they flow across the gables and valleys and spritzers and hoodwinked masses of goat children (they prefer to be called kids). No matter, your Gretchens will come to a pass and deliver what you believe to be gracious pigmentry and something of an elusive Charles-o-meter before the time you are due to go in for surgery. As occasions such as this are widely extolled for their courtesy and generous charitable donations, we mustn’t forget the reason why our money makes us so powerful. It’s the Godlike influence, right? I just wanted to be clear.