Hey folks,
Today marks another one of those random times that the author pulls up a chair and has a real talk.
I’ll keep it brief:
Since I’ve noticed an ever-expanding contingency of readers over the past few years (I’m up to 133 subscribers now, whoo!), I’ve taken it upon myself to be less erratic in the way I post my materials.
Specifically, I’ve chosen to begin posting my poems (and drawings) in more regular installments, so you darling readers don’t have to digest a half-dozen pieces at once. With my work unfolding in a more billowing fashion, I hope to get a more even rotation of viewership that spreads itself out throughout the days and weeks.
This is my goal, and I think it’s a simple enough one at that.
BONUS: My drawings will most likely show up on a once-weekly basis, to break the monotony of words. Sometimes, the drawings might even contain words! And sometimes, the drawings might ONLY be words! As the craft progresses, so will the ideas leading up to its practice.
Thanks again, readers. You’re all A-1 super duper tops in my book.
Love,
Aidan
Tell it not
how you are
or how you act
around company.
Just tell
where we lie
and how we eat
within submarines.
Strawberries can float
down there, she says
as I grin from ear to ear.
We hadn’t known that until
one summer night underwater
with our best friends in tow.
Pressurized peers popped their ears
to the deafening steely screech
and scratched at their eyelids
with jagged bitten nails
reserved for panic attacks.
But look, in the distance,
a perfect ripe strawberry
floating innocent, supple, sublime
through the hull to the bridge
[where Diego swallowed it whole].
This memory is not as fond of us
as we think it ought to be–
but we always persevere
and find better friends.
Before anything must really take place here,
let’s just remember what brought us to this point
of denial and humorless envy for a goddamn pickle.
Are we both too callous to see our foolishness
and obvious desire for a fight whenever possible?
It’s not like we ever really whooped each other
into a froth or a frenzy, but words have been said
that neither of us will unhear as long as we live.
Poultry guts, harpsichord licker on a Sunday night,
tickle-me-princess, tumbling ghost face deluxe,
gargantuan pimple pushing troll doll salesman.
Full-on rage meanders
back to the dresser
and tosses throwing stars
at the formica counter,
bouncing sparks and splintered material
all over the place while
aged mosquito catchers
grumble about old times
before the internet.
Spotted in the lost and found today:
two purple camisoles
a jock strap signed by Darryl Strawberry
a liter of Polish carrot juice
club tickets to the 1979 World Series
a monkey turban (most likely from the organ grinder)
a wool scarf, brown
Stephen Hawking’s eyelash
and a twelve gallon hat.
Note: The twelve gallon hat may simply be a reflection of shoddy workmanship, though I did not detect a difference in size from the other ten gallon hats I’ve seen in this restaurant.
Cool Charlie Mace
never had a reason to race
‘cept that time four years ago.
He took to the streets
with grassroots campaigns
and promises of alternative fuels.
But then when he faltered,
he lost his young fans
to the dragstrip
of irreconcilable agony.
It wasn’t even his idea
to run in the first place.
WHARVED 