Category: Experimental

Screaming with Imperfections

Silversmiths just don’t smithy things quite the same way these days, and I can’t put my finger on why (aside from the obvious lack of a need for hand-hammered silver pieces screaming with imperfections). If I’m being perfectly frank with you, I’m unsure as to how this topic was broached in the first place; don’t machines do all of that work nowadays anyways? The only consistent demand for old-school silversmiths seems to be mostly coming from vintage retailers and collectors in the market for replicas of historical pieces–oh, and Renaissance faires, o’ course.

Now go and do your homework before I change my mind about letting you watch the Dracula movie marathon with me after dinner.

Kicking Around Church Basements

There just happens to be a bit of that element of unbridled circuitry stalling our forensic benefactors for at least one afternoon while Bobby frets over the overarching themes present in your typical Asimov novel, even though he doesn’t know the first thing about the author (or even his first name). Bobby picked that book (Bicentennial Man) for a class project and figured he’d wing it by reading the title and filling in the blanks from there. How hard could it be? He’d at least been able to see the film of the same name, because he enjoyed every piece of Robin Williams’ filmography, to the point where he had two copies of each DVD in his home, one of each to remain unopened and eventually (in his eyes, anyway) serve as a time capsule for future generations to marvel over. In actuality, they’ll most likely end up kicking around church basements for a couple decades or two before finding a new owner–a person collecting obsolete movie technology for the purpose of destroying it and filming the act. It’s highly-conceptual. You just wouldn’t understand.

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.

One Fine Day

There’s something so sublime
about observing and admiring
an intriguing-yet-mundane object in space
that has never failed
to lend credence to that ages-old belief,
often eloquently-stated as the following:

beauty, that relatively universal indicator of aesthetic appeal, is more or less subjective depending upon the perception of the individual/s observing the particular object or phenomenon in question.

Why, I was gazing one fine day–
surveying the park of common human consequence
(observable to very few by the naked eye)–
when my eyes rested upon a preponderance
of turtledove squadron trainers,
and as they went about their daily regimented activities,

I looked deeply into the pools of their eyes

while they continually exhibited
the inability to break out of the checkboxes
they’d been forced to occupy through one coup or another
somewhere along the line as young (or at least, younger)
men with a passion for doing things a different way
than all those other pencil-pushing types
who would be quick to declare their allegiance
to the guild of orderliness (or brotherhood
of smug rule-abiding, and also occasionally
the bean counters collective, depending on who you ask).

Not a woman in the bunch. I chalked that up
as the fairer sex’s natural disinclination toward
imposing human rules upon flighted creatures
with the ultimate goal of turning a profit.
That’s at least
what every woman I’ve ever known
has told me about the situation.

Blue Fox’s Snout

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

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

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.