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
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.



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!



Author: Aidan Badinger I am a poet. I write poems. Titles and subjects and subsequent readership are all part of one fragmented figment of our universe, and it's nice that we take it so seriously. Hopefully the craft remains and grows stronger for our children.

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