Son’s Metal ‘Phant

Son’s metal ‘phant–
the oldest and wisest of all
the terrestrial mammals
that we’ve uncovered to date–

has an uncanny ability to get under one’s skin
in a matter of minutes, though

you’d think that such a gigantic specimen
would have trouble assimilating themselves
into such a tight space.

Fortunately for us (and, indeed, the world at large),
proportionality has no place here.

Zipper Skipper

2021 has been a down year in terms of my total number of published posts. While it might seem discouraging that we’re well into the tenth month and I’m averaging about two posts per month this year, I can say with confidence that the quality of my compositions has increased from last year’s offerings. Well, I can say anything I want in this echo chamber, but that doesn’t necessarily make it true.

You could say that my 2021 has been more of a Instagram year for me, and my visual output has been pretty prolific lately as a result. You can see for yourself at https://www.instagram.com/wharved_/. Anyway, this is all to say that I’m going to be providing more content on a regular basis to WHARVED, since I want to represent my artistic output as accurately as possible, and I realize that Instagram just doesn’t scratch that itch the same way that WHARVED does.

So here’s a drawing for you! I called it Zipper Skipper, and it is my friend.

Public or Private

Pudgy pigeons
pluck plinko players
from plaid plundering,
piracy never preferred
over pragmatic pilgrimages
(purchased with privilege
and pursued with primeval
predilections). Predictions
produce practically no pressure
in this prideful pageant, Professor–
public or private.

Society’s Fault

Hello, I’m Barnaman Bailey.
You may remember me
from such mishearings as:
“hey, aren’t you that ‘ ‘scuze me
while I kiss this guy’ guy?”
People always know
I have one of those type of names,
but I haven’t reached the level of notoriety yet
where people just know it for certain.
I blame society.
It’s society’s fault.

Perfectibillies

Sometimes you just need to keep rattling out random strings of words until you hit that one vein of gold ore that you wouldn’t mind blasting and smelting for the cost of three chicken sandwiches a day–though the price of those chicken sandwiches would be in direct opposition to the idea of one’s own self-worth, which tends to be inherently problematic.

On the one hand, I know that chicken sandwiches are really only worth about a few bucks a pop, but if I feel emotionally bankrupt, a double-digit dollar figure may be too hefty a price tag to tack onto my floundering ego (even if imposed as a thought exercise and nothing else).

Some folks prefer to invent misfortunes due to the dearth of such impediments in their naturally-occurring existence. The culmination of all human experience has led us to quarrel with our inner Perfectibillies (those naïve mind-dwellers with the sole objective to get the point across that we used to be a much more resilient bunch in the midst of chaos). We’ve lost our litheness, and it shows.

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