I can at least say that I’m trying to understand your situation, can’t I? It’s not like I’m just throwing a life preserver from the edge of the dock and telling you to swim in its general direction. I mean, I’m practically carving a canoe from a tree I just chopped down and hauled to shore.
Oh, by the way, all I could find for chopping and carving was a crappy old serrated kitchen knife. I hope you’re happy. Look how miserable you’ve just made me and tell me that you don’t find any satisfaction in that.
is a sense
of foreboding pain,
nothing I can describe
to seize uncontrollably
until the dogs find me,
distraught and laughing,
rolling in the gutter,
where I don’t remember winding up.
I leapt through a series of otherwise meaningless hoops (bald, scorpion, mating ritual-oriented, etc.) before I could contextualize what the hell my actions even meant to me and to those within my immediate surroundings. And do you know what I discovered? You’ll be surprised to learn that absolutely nothing could have been derived from those actions aside from pain and rather tedious boredom! No matter how many labels I ascribed to my life, I still longed for the time where everything was laid out before me in ribbons, streaking across the sky and peppering my vision like pigeons flying above the public library (only pooping periodically, and never on the periodicals), laying my track before me. I had once been content to wander and follow the striped ground, but then the stripes grew apart and I could no longer passively traipse through my existence. It had become clear that I needed to select a distinct path, and I splintered my psyche into several different chords (audibly restless, confused and frustrated). My body grew apart from my mind and I lost that once common-sense connection that allowed me to exist in the same space as others of my species.
And now I wait for my paths to converge once more, so I may mend my fragmented soul and take part in that wholesale charade that most humans call real life.
Left by the wayside with a pincushion in my mouth and an unwavering desire to turn into a penguin of some sort, I ripped a stitch from a feathered cap and unraveled the entirety of my surroundings one garment at a time. I went up to a gentleman (at least a man who appeared to exhibit gentle qualities) and ripped the chapeau from his head, forgetting that I’d already altered a head-covering. I then apologized for my amateur mistake and replaced the hat (though not without feeling the material and guessing where it was made (before reading the tag: Sri Lanka). I looked around for a scarf, but there were no ladies of suitable standing from whom I could steal such a regal accoutrement. I was puzzled, and decided that I hadn’t quite reached shirt territory without at least finding my first scarf. I then began to wander aimlessly across the plaza, wondering if I would ever find a scarf (considering the blistering summer heat). I grew weary (considering the blistering summer heat) and sought a resting place. The first patch of shade I found was located six hundred and forty-seven yards away from my initial realization of fatigue, and it sure took me a long time to reach it (a lone willow tree by a dried up river, looking rather droopy and not at all in the mood to shelter a tired traveler). I took a seat under the boughs and noticed a fine lady of royal standing resting just two meters to my right, scarf and all. Taking the situation into account, I made a snap judgment and grabbed the fabled garment. My grabbing was quite forceful and I awoke her from her light sleep. She gurgled and rolled her eyes while appearing to doubt my very existence. She seemed to accept her position as the victim in this position, letting me gradually unwrap this intricate (and obviously valuable) scarf. It took me four minutes to remove the garment, which measured seventeen feet (give or take a yard). I said a quick “thank you” and scurried off, not rested after my arduous journey, but nevertheless energized by this encounter.
As an aside, I currently have an open channel with the universe, and I am typing according to what I have been told to type. What follows is a sequence of true streaming through the void that we call pincushion paradise for the sake of otherwise stumpy bodies dangling and remaining like a sardine tin of vague proportions. You see, the fledgling act of vulnerability must counteract that longing, the intense, express yawning that we rifle out every day in fear of scrutiny and a velvet hat matrix squandered freely by baboon children (not actual baboon young, but human children highly resembling the aforementioned creatures).
Do I have an argument
as to the what nows
and the how nots?
Of course I do.
But I will not
waste your time
with such trivialities.
as we double concern
for the sacred appendage:
a tenderloin inertia carriage
headed for the lightning flats.
I stave off depression by laughing at all those small things one would normally dismiss as mundane and otherwise unfunny. A crack in the sidewalk shaped like the silhouette of Walter Mondale; a pigeon that unwittingly traces three invisible clockwise circles with its waddling; a skyscraper hiding and reappearing as cloudcover waxes and wanes. Did these phenomena actually occur? Of course they did. Was I there to observe them? Anything’s possible.
My ego dictates that I write this right now, and I will not fight it this time. Whenever I take up arms against this curious opponent, I inevitably end up turning the gun on myself. My ego is a tricky thing– it would prefer to exist as unlabeled and free-flowing, though I must give it traits (being the human I am). My ego likes long walks on the beach (though, more accurately, my ego likes having acknowledged taking a long walk on the beach and making fun of me for being so cliché).
are really no longer
a fashion statement.
I can say with confidence
that next season
more of a panda motif,
though I haven’t a clue
as to which bodily region
will be more highly favored
by designers when deciding
how best to market these new products.
Swig some bourbon and rate
your childhood Methodist experiences
like you never left the church
(and certainly never lost the faith).
You may find that your actions seem hollow,
but you will certainly notice
that the bourbon is especially delicious
when sarcastically recanting your religion
(best when done in moderation).
Primed for a gravy stain, my shirt just sat on my torso like it actually wanted to lose its integrity as an unsullied fashion statement. I didn’t notice at the time, but this shirt had been begging for a distinguishing feature ever since I bought it. I recall a close shave with some bleach that nearly poured into the washing machine and ruined every stitch of dark-colored clothing I had, but I was able to smack the bottle away before it could do any damage (at least to the clothes). Ever since then (and this is all in retrospect, as I had no idea of my shirt’s intentions until just a few seconds ago), I’ve felt this primal urge to drip something damning on myself when at the dinner table (or better yet, while eating a precariously-perched meal on my favorite recliner), rendering this once-generic garment wholeheartedly unique by virtue of an unprecedented stain motif.
I fell into a cavern, though it felt more like a basic crevice than anything. Aside from my personal interpretation, this cavern presented an imminent threat to my balance as I tumbled through its mouth (thankfully wearing elbow pads). I knew, right then and there, that it would be at least seven or eight seconds before I could right myself and take a look at my various bodily injuries (thankfully none on my elbows). I looked at my watch as I continued to fall, timing my perception and seeing just how accurate my prediction would turn out. After nine seconds of continual falling, I gave up on my short-sighted dream of becoming a soothsayer and let gravity take its toll.
Rate this scenario on a scale of one to pineapple: Aunt Johnny gallops into the backyard with a mop on her head in place of what most people would expect to be a wig. As this mop is still dripping from the last time it was used to clean floors, it’s quite obvious that Aunt Johnny was desperate for a head covering and had nowhere to turn but the local elementary school’s janitor’s closet (pardon me, custodial office). Aunt Johnny is oblivious to such critical social missteps, and chooses to ignore the stares as she streaks through the residential neighborhood. Everyone in a three-block radius can smell a particularly enchanting combination of bleach and pine-scented floor cleaner, though only 19% of said sniffers will ever understand why this aroma wafted past them.
Night mobilizes day into a frenzy of regret to be conquered with tedious labor for the sole purpose of initiating the guilt sequence in individuals who would otherwise have the common decency to leave well enough alone and prepare a simple meal for a small group of friends and discuss the nature of their lives up to that point (hoping to uncover latent similarities and conjure visions of what friendship may produce in an ideal world).
Syrup has a strange existence. It doesn’t have the flow of a pocketwatch, nor the sting of a turpentine fairy’s scepter in the middle of a February blizzard. No. Syrup smacks of squeezed opportunity, the kind you’d find on your walk to the neighborhood dentist while conversing with a friend you’d just made the night before over bridge and lattes.
W: I would like to produce a play.
C: That’s admirable. Who are the characters?
W: Oh, no. There won’t be any characters.
C: I’ve never heard of a play without characters.
W: You’ve been living under a rock, my friend.
C: I don’t understand why you have to point that out every time we get together. It’s rude and hurtful, especially in public places.
I shrank my entire city down into a nutshell, quite literally. I wrapped it in foil and stuck it in my pocket for the commute to work. But just as I was about to walk out the door, I realized that my concept of space and time had been irreparably altered. Throwing the door off its hinges, I greeted the blankness that immediately enveloped me from every angle. I searched my pocket for the condensed metropolis, but that too had vanished. I shouldn’t have done such a foolish thing, especially before I’d had anything to eat for the day.
Flecked with indifference and, otherwise, a pain that can’t be covered by insurance, I gaped at my ancestors for a solid seven minutes without realizing that my vigil would be viewed by the world at large as a strange session of staring at nothing in particular. It wasn’t until I made it back home for the evening that I took all those vacant glares into account, and by that time I’d already forgotten why I reached out to my ancestors in the first place. Something to do with losing the family farm, I think.
There’s a serious chance I could have run out of material, and at this point I’m simply channelling used thoughts through a strainer (that gross old one in the back of the cabinet), attempting to rejuvenate the language I once adored more than a boulder of kitten medicine (the crispy kind). I don’t understand how lack of invention could be the cheese that ran my chicken’s temperature high last autumn, but it appears as though I have no choice in the matter. All I can do is wait for the sturgeon convention to take place and soil my fricassee, and I’m sick with anticipation. If I have no other possible things I can invent, then why is this gnome hanger just sitting in the middle of a bathtub-riddled mineshaft? I understand that gnomes are bearded just like prospectors, but never the twain shall meet. Nothing I can say has been judged by a panel of critics, and I’m worried about the consequences of my isolation. If a Vancouver eggplant dealer ever got wind of this tidbit for future inspiration (and perspiration for the most part), we would have hell to pay because of your glittering mouth. Can’t you dispense with the glitter, just this once?
Jambalaya scoutsman, take me away from this place of burden and somewhat tedious toil. What we used for our caramel space invaders engine is none of your business, I would prefer it if you keep your notions at arm’s length.
Now that the unpleasantness is over, what’s to stop the two of us from having some fun? Oh, a rotten diaper is a very good answer. Let’s postpone this on account of smell.
I’ve done significant time in the past. My warden was not a compassionate individual, but we have a forty-six year history together. I took the period of time in question (let’s call it an epoch) and shortened it to what would seem to you and me to be a microsecond if we were to view its abbreviated version. It’s not pretty, mostly because the entertainment value is so low and the colors all bleed together.
On a separate note, there are not a lot of shaved gouda mattresses in shipment for this Thursday. We’ll have to put in a special request. Any other cheese bed they have lying around would probably do just fine.
In the case of an uneventful staircase incident, we must smoke our cigarettes with the best of them, when such time presents itself as a boon to our stagnation and otherwise fruitless lives. I can no longer limit myself to observing the rage that is tomato juice trumpeting, but I certainly can forget the concept altogether and lose the enrichment I once had (if only for an hour or two on weekends, rarely entertained by passing breezes).