The Grand Salami


Took a bite out of the grand salami as rent came due for the first time since the accident of seven or twenty lifetimes–it didn’t have the forgiving click I’d once known it to have, nor the pallid complexion to which I’d become accustomed. Kept taking bites, not knowing what to expect (consistently finding myself disappointed with the mediocrity).

Memory coats your experiences with an obscuring lacquer, tossing them into a vortex where they’re perfectly preserved as imperfect accounts. Rarely are they ever challenged in your own mind, they prefer to kick around the temporal realm and surface as nostalgia from time to time.

Before I’d been rudely jolted back into reality by a new salami experience, I was content to reminisce on the superb quality of the last one. But was it really that special? That hallowed bite came on the same day as my nephew’s graduation from that college prep they’re all raving about these days, so perhaps I allowed myself to override the underwhelming sausage experience with fondness for another scenario that happened at roughly the same time. Whatever the case, I’m going to lay off the cured meats for a while.

Factory


Tenderer than the tiniest tangerine and more available than bargain basement fried rice, one can only surmise that the weight of this whole Edgar-spinning habañero factory would equal that of a mid-grade mouse (at least after said mouse has purged itself of the latest fad diet food). If that’s not the case, then the sabotage worked its wonders once again (God bless us all) and our strange liquidation may have been for naught. But let’s not think about such treachery at this moment–heaven will be waiting for us upon the cessation of our final scruples. I’m telling you, this must be true. Why else would I even bother placating you? Death amounts to the complete reversal of mortal avarice, I’ve been told. By a reliable source, mind you. Now, I can’t go around blabbing about the destinations of our celestial bodies and not buy you a drink. That would be a crime. Manhattan for you? Never had one?! This will be interesting.

The Wharved Connection — Episode 2


Hey there! It’s time once again for The Wharved Connection!

This episode features work from Summer of 2016, and includes:
Lake Uponamawoc
Biff and Buffy
Pinto
Interstellar Reception Hall

The poems are below if you wish to read along.

Lake Uponamawoc

Handier than a set of dull steak knives
and more buoyant than the Duke of Edinburgh,
this here dog in a box is a celebration
of festive times past. Since the dawn
of our current set of circumstances,
nothing has refreshed one’s sense of dignity
more than the knowledge of a particular
string of extraterrestrial occurrences
up over by Lake Uponamawoc–if they’re
to be believed. The results of these
alien encounters are apparent: dogs-in-boxes
are popping up all across the tri-county area,
the calling cards of our benevolent overlords
from the other end of the galaxy. Nobody
knows when this started, but spiritual channelers
have often said this practice predates
the bronze age by a good margin. Our species
may have first learned of both dogs and boxes
through this bizarre ritual, utterly changing
our impressions of storage and animal friendship.

——

Biff and Buffy

I’m not too troubled
by the humanitarian implications
present in such an occurrence.
I’m more concerned with
how all these ham sandwiches–
half with mustard, half with mayo–
got here in the first place.
Falling from a passing hot air balloon
would be the most plausible explanation,
an airborne picnic that got
too heavy to stay aloft otherwise.

Biff and Buffy Picnicmaker
would have plenty left to snack on anyway
if such a scenario were true.
There would still be enough
hard-boiled eggs, potato salad,
caviar and toast points
to last them through the sunset,
as they’re not big eaters anyway.
They had a sizable breakfast
before taking to the sky,
and the only thing they really
can’t go without would be their urn
of coffee, painstakingly brewed
the day before yet still steaming–
just the way they like it.

——

Pinto

The Sun filters
through canopy leaves
to impose
a tinted pinto pattern
on a utility vehicle—

two-hundred some-odd
horses under the hood,
expecting imminent
metal pedaling—
waiting in July heat

for the concrete cowboy
to unhitch them after sweating
in the noonday Sun
picking up the second load
of dry-cleaning in as many days.

——

Interstellar Reception Hall

While we’re at this interstellar reception hall,
we should take the time to tell all our friends
what we’re doing this for: the peculiar sense
of freedom and wonder that takes off like a goose
through the heron-streaked gates of our overlords,
be they earthly or heavenly. It doesn’t matter
who takes the cake in this tradition, we must
stealthily enlist the help of as many indentured
mandibles as humanly possible, lest we fall into
a holding pattern of nothing in particular–save
plaid or argyle in shirts and socks. We’re all in
the habit of making friends with people who choose
not to know much about our end of the galaxy, and
it’s not much of a turn-on when you come to realize
that nobody really knows much about our end of the galaxy.

The freedom to choose whose friendship we want
is something to be admired, but it comes with a cost:
pepperoni pizza to be consumed by all parties involved
for as long as a grand occasion can be extended. If
pizza isn’t the taste of the day, a number of foods may be
substituted–pita pockets, burgers or even flan for instance.

——

Thanks for tuning in, glad to have you around.

Catch you next time!

-Aidan

The Wharved Connection — Episode 1


Hello there, readers!

I’ve begun to explore the oratory side of poetry, taking pieces I’ve composed over the past several years and breathing life into them with my voice. I’ve been told that my voice does a unique job of making the written word more interesting to the average audience member, so I figured it was about time to give the whole podcast thing a shot.

That all being said, I’ve put together my very first podcast, with four recorded works included. I’ve cobbled together a rudimentary recording that should do the job for the time being. Over time, as I gain skills in the audio engineering department, I’ll be able to offer a more polished product. But as it stands, I simply want to get my spoken words across to you.

The pieces included in this podcast are:
Speculatives
The Widget Farmers
Self-Consciousness
Chicken Wrestler

If these pieces seem new to you, that wouldn’t surprise me. They were all composed in the Summer of 2013. An entire olympics ago, I was penning these poems in the pursuit of continuing my craft and engineering works of literary merit that hadn’t existed anywhere else prior. Looking back at these efforts, I’m happy to say that they still hold a certain amount of intrigue.

You may have noticed that Wrinkled didn’t quite make the cut. These things happen.

Well, enjoy the recording, all eight minutes of it. I expect that most episodes will be anywhere between five and ten minutes, nice bite-size little nuggets for easy consumption.

Cheers, and happy listening!

-Aidan