Blue Inkjoy Rollerball Pen
300 Series (0.7F, Non-Gel, Non-Retractable)
Red Inkjoy Rollerball Pen
300 Series (0.7F, Non-Gel, Retractable)
on
TWONE Full Wood Paper Sketchbook
140 x 210 mm / 5.5 x 8.25″
100 gsm / 68 lb
Category: Abstract
Encountered Significance
Red Inkjoy Rollerball Pen
300 Series (0.7F, Non-Gel, Retractable)
on
TWONE Full Wood Paper Sketchbook
140 x 210 mm / 5.5 x 8.25″
100 gsm / 68 lb
Diamontology
Blue Inkjoy Rollerball Pen
50 Series (1.0 M, Non-Gel, Non-Retractable)
on
TWONE Full Wood Paper Sketchbook
140 x 210 mm / 5.5 x 8.25″
100 gsm / 68 lb
——
3/5/19
-AFEB
Superficial
If bears could write,
would they choose that pastime
over climbing trees?
I’ll let you ponder that for a minute.
A can of whoop-ass overshadowed our biweekly WoundFest; there are only superficial injuries detailed in the most recent meeting minutes, no instances whatsoever of skin being broken. An average WoundFest should typically entail deep flesh wounds, mainly for the purpose of scaring away enthusiastic and misled newbies. The WFers are a tight-knit group, can’t have fair-weather harm-infliction hobbyists just jumping in and out all willy-nilly! What would say about WFers as a group? I’ll tell ya right now, it would make them look desperate! Soliciting the pain of complete outsiders and kicking them to the curb when they balk at the notion of losing a pint or two of blood… those despicable near-masochists need to stick with their own kind, so we don’t even broach this conversation in the first place, airing out our dirty laundry for the world to see.
Now, what these here WFers need to do, if they’re in the business of enlisting new members, is go out to the woods and rustle up a few bears. That would definitely take the unrequited writing ability off of their minds for a little bit, while practically guaranteeing worthwhile flesh wounds in the process (bloodlust is a hell of a drug). I can only imagine how excruciating it must be to possess the ability to manipulate something as complex and abstract as modern language with absolutely no ability to record it, aside from rudimentary scratch marks on tree bark that could never be appreciated as a contribution to the literary canon. At best, they’ll be confused with the cliché summer camp gouge marks left behind by horny pre-teens.
Ne’er-Do-Well
I
Meticulous electricians developed this lovely method for measuring their professionalism by throwing oil-soaked towels out of their respective windows at variable rates, unbeknownst to their long-suffering mothers and clergymen.
II
Once upon a time, our heroes of stage and craft built an anomaly that would mortify the ne’er-do-well karma wankers until no measure of cigar-stoppage could unravel our collective albatross leanings (as uncharted as it would seem to any non-intellectual types out there), and we sorely apologize for any bruised egos.
II
Ether assists in the quarantining of hostile entities, it sure does. If we hadn’t discovered this inexplicable gassy juice thing, we still would have been muddling along in Tommy’s sauna, insisting that no level of gallantry or goofus-ery could upend our preconceived notion of how to get down when faced with a horde of potbelly pigs. Now, potbelly stoves I could handle. They tend not to move for years on end. I could easily prepare for a stove rebellion. But pigs? No way in hell, my hypothetical friend.
Mile a Minute
Tainted ivory beats the scoundrel flagon,
peregrine cheaters flocking
to those most savory passes,
wafted there
upon the sea’s rippling intentions
that (as of May 14, 2013 and October 9, 2016)
match the price of a bodega avocado–
and for what?
One pound of lighter fluid (yes, measured dry).
No scale available? Substitute
a week’s worth of third grade valentine cards
(read at the rate of roughly one mile a minute).
Significance assured,
we must set our sights on the next horizon,
where our assertions flourish,
undeterred by argument and bolstered
by the chaos of existence (or
existence of chaos, whichever floats your boat).
A rainy day soiled the arid week,
flash flooding the earth’s
hard-earned cracks (as though
temperamental life’s perpetuation
were the goal here).
Recall
Artie told me one day something about the importance of swallowing twice to signal yes for some particular mission. I lost everything after that, my money, my mind, my family, essentially all articles of existence worth living for (I’ve been told), but I know that a person named Artie told me one day about swallowing twice, some thing lodged in his arm when he was saying it. I couldn’t figure out why he was telling me something about swallowing when some thing was just jutting out of his arm. But then the world went black and I came to–
a different person, where all I knew was that Artie told me something about swallowing while his left arm was being attacked by a pointy fish of some kind as he tried to swim away to safety, and I couldn’t understand why he would be telling me something about swallowing while fleeing for his life. Was I swimming? I can’t remember, because the next thing I knew, everything went black. I woke up to the knowledge of only Artie. Or was it Archie? No, definitely Artie. He had a rifle pointed at me, resting it on his forearm like one of those old black and white cowboys. Told me something about swallowing twice to make it all stop, my mission from God? Mission from something, I can’t remember because everything went black and I awoke–
Archie was sitting in a temple as I watched from my bed. He was somber, very intentional with his movements, as I could always recall.
WHARVED 