Category: Anthropomorphization

Running Low

Albacore dreams float soundless,
drop to sediment, petrify
and wash up:
broken empty shells
pulverized underfoot,
inflicting wounds at will.

All the lost blood
won’t collect
on the beach,
the sand gulps it and dives
into froth.

Burrowed in muck,
all the ‘O’s and ‘AB’s
reaffirm their common lineages,
summoning up a plume of sanguinary vitality
(luring jerky lurker sharks
near the shore to nip some ‘A+’
from a lazing boogie boarder–
that type’s always running low
for some reason).

———-

Original draft posted to WHARVED on 3/2/12,
entitled #130

Lil Yeller Fellers

I had quite the feisty colony of bees stored up,
only to leave them back in Georgia–
in the hands of my dingus brother, no less.
God, what kind of mess did I make of this?

I miss them lil yeller fellers, but
becoming a full-time yankee tartographer
means you need to make supreme sacrifices
for the good of the craft and its reception.

It’s bad enough
that folks have never heard of this field,
and even worse when they just shrug it off
like some kind of joke
without really stopping to think about it.

You know what? I don’t have the time
to convert the unbelievers anyway. Matter
of fact,
I’m gonna go get my bees back. Tartography
just ain’t what it used to be.

Stubborn One

Petrification process, present yourself!

Not yet, eh? Why not?
Not talking, eh? Stubborn one, aren’t we?

Well, if you won’t talk, then I’ll just have to be the one to break the ice.

Once upon a time, a fly buzzed around from place to place. Its favorite place to land was upon the top spike of a stegosaurus’ back. Didn’t matter which particular specimen, as long as the spike was at the highest point of the animal.

It may seem odd that I’m mentioning a fly’s perching preference, but by the time I’m done explaining why, you will have–at the very least–a beginner’s understanding as to how futile our existence proves to be over the course of time.

I have now finished my explanation, in case you weren’t aware.

Etched in Stone

Chastising champions comes as a natural pastime for the uninitiated rite-mogul-squishers, and it would come as no surprise to those in the clergy (no matter what people may have said about whom or what).

Now, it’s plain as day that you’re looking at me with more than a little bit of apprehension. I’m unsure of what would have prompted this skepticism, other than my various bouts of word vomit from time to time.

Ah, yes, so that would indeed be your reason. Okay, I can work with that. Quickly, now, just go ahead and patronize a chinchilla for a couple minutes while I grab the pre-moistened dentures from George Washington’s exhumed tomb.

Please, can’t you just do me this one favor? I promise that you won’t have to settle for submitting to my acerbic wit for much longer.

No, I’m not sure how much longer. But you of all people should understand that this, like all things, must pass. You’ll just have to take my word on that.

Aw jeez, fine, I’ll patronize this damn critter myself. I swear, you’re getting lazier and lazier by the minute.

Right, right. I know you’re not in the market to be compared to a stooge or a puppet for anyone, least of all myself. But that’s really beside the point right now, wouldn’t you say?

It’s not? Please do explain.

Well, of course I understand that not everything revolves around me. I mean, how narcissistic would I have to be…?

Okay, okay okay. But in my defense, I had a rat for a father and a pig for a mother. Or was it a pig for a father and a rat for a mother? I can never get those details straight. You see, my parents both died before I was born, so I’ve never been able to diagnose my unsatisfied situation.

I suppose you’re right. Let’s just say–if they both died before I was born, I must be one special SOB.

No, I am not lying to you. Everything I’ve said is 100% truthful, and you can quote me on that.

Anyway, let’s get back to brass tacks. Or, at least, aluminum pins. I don’t know what kind of fasteners you people use these days, and I’m not going to bother sweeping up the damn pencil shavings from all the times you’ve decided to update your vernacular just for the hell of it. I’m through with it, I tells ya.

What do you mean the chinchilla escaped?! It can’t have gotten far, let’s split up. You go upstairs, I’ll go around the corner for some tamales.

Tamales are actually all too relevant here, you pensive Polly! Listen, you’re just going to have to trust me again.

I’ll explain when you’re older. Now, do you want red sauce or green?

It has a huge impact, believe me. Every time a sauce choice is plucked from the bowels of obscurity, a quintessential jeopardy magnet gains a friend. That might as well be etched in stone.

Yes, I suppose you’re right. Bowels wouldn’t be the most apropos or salient image when you’re talking about food, but not everything exists to please your restrictive sensibilities, now does it? Just stick with the program here and you’ll be fine.

Exactly! I’m glad you’re starting to see it my way. A cherrywood beacon should have been activated upon completion of chinchilla patronization, but since the furry bugger absconded with our worthwhile afternoon, we have to improvise with a round of tamales. I don’t know how I can make this any clearer for you here. Now please, red or green?

You sure?

Okay, green it is. You poor bastard.

Won’t Be Around

It’s not immediately clear as to why we should express gratitude for these minuscule things we take for granted every day,

but certain wise people–time and again–have said that inner peace is really just gratitude wrapped up in some nondenominational bunting and tossed over the side of a pontoon while you’re fishing in the middle of Lake Superior in the middle of the longest day of Summer,

where somehow you find one lonesome chunk of ice inexplicably adrift as though it could have been placed there for the purpose of setting up a convenient visual aid for a climate change documentary.

Little Bergamot–that’s what we’re calling our frozen hero du jour–simply minds their own business out there, doing their best not to knock into anybody, when out of the blue someone inconsiderate–such as yourself, perhaps–putzes their way over and just so happens to chuck that bunting, smacking ol’ Bergie right in their weak little slush-filled belly,

sending our hapless pilgrim to re-integrate with its watery cousins
much quicker than otherwise established through melting rates
extolled by scientists the world around as
“the purest definition of why humans shouldn’t underestimate
the contributions made to global ecology
through strict, unbiased observation of this universe around us.”

Or some version of that sanctimonious diatribal crap; Bergie won’t be around to hear it anyway.

Again

A younger tree stands pert and upright
against the setting sun
on an April afternoon of little consequence–

to anyone other than perhaps
the octahedral chainsmokers out there, but that’s
a conversation for another time and place, m’friend.

The bud-tipped nerve endings are raw,
eager for a consistent warmth to figure itself out.

The trees all know
what they’ve gotten themselves into these days,
after noticing all the human affectations
popping up around them

again.

The existential rigamarole isn’t lost on them,
believe me. They know
that we only keep them around
for their oxygen supply, isn’t that obvious?

If we could find a cheaper or more efficient way
to convert a global supply of carbon dioxide
into breathable oxygen,
we would drop everything
and jettison all those woody worriers
into space, where they could become
petrified ornaments, immaculate baubles
showcased in an ever-expanding curio cabinet.

The details on such a plan
have never been made clear, since
it’s likely never to happen.
Lucky bastard trees.
You too, shrubs. I’m watching you.

Lap Scraps

Within our stricken, conflicted
human psyches
lies the power to change our circuitry or
ignore the idea
that anything could be amiss.
We are not tragic figures all,
how could we be? Well see,
there’s the rub.
We all come from tragedy
to beget tragedies of our own.
We must avert travesty
while negotiating the roiling tragedies
unique to each of us.

On that note, I went back to the well
to replenish my joy and wonder
for words and their ability
to impact our immediate universes.

*–*–*

Read a passage about red shoes
and you probably won’t be surprised
to find that a lot of people walking about
are donning red shoes.

*–*–*

Now the plan (to be quickly rendered
irrelevant if all goes well) is to encounter
the skeletal fragments of op-ed pieces
concerning the phenomenon of right-shoulder
organ grinder monkey-carrying–
notes just lying around in various
unexpected filing cabinets, I’d assume–
to cobble together a feel-good article
revolving around the presence of that
ages-old parable wherein a matchbox-sized
chubby-cheeked angel proffers ethical advice
(of course, while also embodying
the epitome of baroque cuteness).

Look at that capuchin monkey’s little face,
so expressive!
Just like a tiny person
begging for table scraps–
lap scraps at a picnic–
while they dart their eyes
and appear to be narrowly averting collision
with numerous invisible entities
at a rate of about thirty ducks per minute.