Poetry comes
from the notion of explaining
why things happen,
whether or not they base themselves
in reality.
Often times,
these things happen due to human intervention,
but some,
less deterministic and headstrong,
detangle the web of cosmic perception
and show what happens
as it happens
and for the purpose of its happenstance,
regardless of human input.
Shedded leaves scuffle
across a sunlit parking lot,
their bellies scratching
like rain pattering
the shelly sand
on the Atlantic shoreline.
He grabbed the salt shaker and gingerly sprinkled several granules upon the sweet potato fry he clutched in his other hand. He preferred not to drown his entire serving in higher blood pressure, though he failed to consider the possibility that portioning the seasoning out to individual fries would eventually surpass an initial liberal dumping before he took his first bite. About halfway through, however, he noticed that the spill-off from his deliberate salting was enough to flavor the remainder of the fries, which he found to be quite convenient, because it afforded him to put down the shaker and proceed to shovel the fried goodness into his mouth at a highly accelerated rate.
Upon completion of his snack, he looked up from the grease-stained paper basket and immediately chastised my gastronomic efforts. “Wow, you’re still only halfway through that sandwich? How is that possible?”
He hiccuped and gulped about six ounces of Dr. Pepper.
“We’ve been eating for three minutes, Andre. Are you kidding me? Apart from that, I’ve actually been enraptured by your shameless display of gluttony. I saw your whole process, and I have to admit I found it rather amusing.”
“No, you’re just a girly man. What’s in that sandwich, anyway? Are you still a damn dirty vegetarian?”
“Eh, it was too difficult to deprive myself of the animals I know and love, even though I know exactly how they get from those sweat farms to my plate. That just shows you how much of a man I really am.
Oh, and this is a turkey club. I mostly just ordered it to see if they’d stick those plastic-frilled toothpicks in the individual quarters of sandwich to keep them from falling apart, and I’m not disappointed. They even varied the colors of the plastic! Two orange and two green! I believe a large tip is in order.”
“Remind me why we hang out so much.”
B: Tell me, sheriff, have you an appetite for macaroni?
C: Well no, not particularly. Why do you ask?
B: I was simply operating on a hunch. Do you ever find the idea of macaroni to be appealing?
C: Well, I suppose I do on occasion, though never enough to amount to making myself a batch.
B: What would you say if I were to tell you that there’s a five-gallon vat of macaroni and cheese behind this red velvet curtain?
C: I would tell you that you are surely lying, for that curtain is purple, and appears to be made of a cheaper material than velvet.
B: Those are all semantics, sheriff. Answer my question.
C: Fine, I would say you’re nuts to have wasted that much time making so much pasta, and it probably doesn’t even taste good.
B: Oh sheriff, you are quite wrong. This pasta is the most exquisite and lovingly crafted dish I have ever made.
C: Really son? Well, in that case, I’m intrigued. May I taste your recipe? It’s not often that something like this happens on my beat at 1 am.
B: Yes of course, but you must provide your own spoon.
C: Why would I have a spoon? I’m a beat cop looking for suspicious activity in a dangerous neighborhood on what is usually one of the most crime-ridden nights of the year. I’m surprised at the lull in activity, honestly. Anyway, I have no spoon. Is the deal off?
B: No, of course not. You may use your hands. Or, if you feel creative, you may use your nightstick or your pistol.
C: I’d better go with the nightstick. All right son, let me see that vat of macaroni!
B: Okay, just let me pull on this tasseled rope to part the curtains. Voila! A vat of macaroni the size of a potbelly stove!
C: Mm, consistency is pleasant, temperature is just right. There seems to be something unrecognizable in the sauce. I am by no means a gourmet, but I think you used an exotic ingredient of some kind. In any case, I quite enjoy this dish. Thank you for sharing!
B: The pleasure is all mine, sheriff. Now would you like to pay me the three thousand dollars now or in installments?
C: Uh, excuse me? Three thousand dollars? How on earth did you come up with that exorbitant number, and how could you dare to charge a man in uniform with a pistol and a pair of handcuffs on his belt?
B: It’s no problem, sheriff, I was only joking. I’ll be on my way with my dish. Lucky I installed these casters on the bottom of the platform, so the whole thing can roll away like a cloud. Have a great night, sheriff!
C: Wait son, can I have another taste of that macaroni? It was so good, and I just thought that since you have five gallons of it, one more bite wouldn’t-
B:I’m sorry sheriff, but your first bite was the only freebie. What kind of cash do you have on you?
C: Well, I have a twenty and a couple of fives.
B: Thirty bucks, huh? All right, I’ll give you a man-in-uniform discount. But just this once, you hear me?
C: Yeah yeah, but this time I’m going to use my hands and scoop a bowlful to get my money’s worth.
B: Smart man, using that discount wisely. Tell me, sheriff, how do you intend to stop crime with your hands full of macaroni?
C: I never thought of that, honestly, but I should be finished with it before long.
B: How long does it take to commit a murder?
C: Well, if you’re good it takes no more than a few seconds.
B: So what if someone went off on a murderous rampage while you were loafing around eating macaroni and cheese? How would that reflect upon your badge?
C: I’m banking on the fact that such a terrible occurrence will not happen in the immediate future while I’m savoring this dish. By the way, can you tell me your secret ingredient? I promise I won’t tell anyone.
B: Well, I hate to sound corny, but the secret ingredient is love. Love mixed with LSD and a pint of heroin.
C: Love and LSD and heroin, eh? …
B: Yes sir, top of the line. How are you feeling?
C: I take from the mouth of the innocent the gaping flange of superior intellect and betray the senses to no end.
B: I see it’s kicking in.
Every bear has a day of monopoly as it hunts salmon, thinking: “well, I don’t think I could do anything wrong during this fishing trip. Hey Larry, check out this one-hander!”
The salmon in the stream know they’re approaching a creature who’s in the zone, and most of them still try to escape its clutches, not figuring the percentage chance that they have of getting away is actually quite high (especially since this particular bear fills up on five salmon, where most other adults like six or even seven).
Larry watches this streaky bear attempt a one-handed catch of a leaping salmon, and he knows such things rarely happen unless the fisher were to impale said fish on its claws, and most salmon are substantial enough to simply bounce off and swim away, or at the very worst lose a few scales and become a laughingstock.
The salmon smacks our hero square in the pad of his paw, only to see another paw close in around its head, securing the catch.
“Hey Doorman, you said one-hander, not two-hander!”
“Dude, I don’t have thumbs, and I deadened the fish on my paw before getting the second one in there. You’re just jealous of my skills.”
Larry is a bit jealous of Doorman, but his male instinct won’t let him admit it.
I only hope I can impart
some small change to society,
just as a urine stain,
no matter how minute,
has the power to completely alter
a loveseat’s legacy.
I post today to post tomorrow, because if I don’t post, all hope is lost.
I don’t honestly believe that, but jumping to the extremities (fingers and toes, usually) helps me to center myself in the actuality of things.
Things are as they are, and I have a choice to influence them, like a seal taunting the starving polar bear at the edge of his hunting territory.
Intention and influence are directly correlated. If I intend to influence something, chances are that an effect will take place in the general area of my desire. The stronger I intend something, the more that intention has a chance of working its cosmic mumbo jumbo toward the realm of physicality and impacting what really matters (though it’s not obvious what that may be, now more than ever).
Desire to make an impact is often the reason for most self-imparted action to the universe, as I’ve observed throughout my life. I’ve observed it and sometimes demanded the same for myself, but only when I’ve teed off on some meaningless tangent.
I used to be good at ‘trivia’, whatever that means. I used to hate my generation, whatever that means.
Now I’m awful at trivia because I find no reason for it. After all, its definition means it shouldn’t be important.
My generation and I are still at a crossroads, because my parents’ generation took me under its wing as a star baby (queue Guess Who song), precocious and lively in the intellectual sphere (which probably can be translated to cranium). When I was two, I told my mother that I wanted a violin and a suit. Fun times for this kid. My first grammatically sound sentence was ‘be careful’. I know how to throw a party, I tell ya what.
I’m not insinuating that I’m embarrassed or perturbed by my early geezerness, because I used to relish that fact. I took it as a sign of early maturity and independence, especially when I started taking the CTA Blue Line to school at the age of twelve.
College rolled around, and I gave youth a shot. A shot of tequila later, I decided I’d had enough. I like making products of wit and ingenuity, often with a word play or two involved, so you can imagine my zeal for throwing back cans of Natty Lite (Yes, lite, a word that probably shouldn’t exist, yet is undoubtedly a part of the English language). Good jokes go die when imbibed with alcohol, though it’s easier to get a laugh when you impart them to an intoxicated group (unless there are too many syllables and references to ironic word order and spelling).
Creativity is born, often lost in the pursuit of a ‘good living’. I don’t yet know what a ‘good living’ is, but it sure as hell isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
I’m often deemed ‘funny’. I guess I possess certain traits which convey a sense of humor to an unsuspecting ear, but I only use them because this world is too difficult to take seriously.
When I take this world seriously, there are seventy eight trillion things on the agenda. No, seventy seven trillion, eight hundred and seventy four billion, two hundred and forty nine million, five hundred and fourteen thousand, two hundred and ninety-nine things. I like to get my numbers straight.
When everything is tabulated and accounted for, I sit and look at them (or simply think about them if I don’t have a large enough spreadsheet). I look at them all at once and think: ‘this place needs a fucking laugh’.
-Aidan
WHARVED 