He was a motor-mechanical anti-mathematical
(some kind of patron of the arts).
Never did much
besides pass the time
with a chicken named Harvey
(a fowl alcoholic).
They’d drink and squawk
about the most mundane, asinine things
[and they loved it].
Falsified drugstore positions
will do you no good, Chucky Dan.
First you’ll want to get at the razor blades
without customer assistance–good luck
if you don’t have a crowbar
or similar striking/prying agent.
Before you know it,
you’ll be halfway down the rabbit hole
of convenience addiction.
It won’t be long now
until you find yourself
checking into hotel rooms
just to assess the price of french fries
(weighted against the corresponding preparations).
Trust me on this one, CD.
Doorstop Dog,
you reminisce about childhood
a lot.
That strawberry milkshake
between your paws
looks mighty delicious
on a hot April morning.
Improvisation without representation is definitely authorized in this club, though I don’t quite know how it’s supposed to be accomplished (at least without some corporeal manifestation hanging around on this mechanical rotating clothes rack we call the universe).
First off, you’re supposed to “yes, and” the opposition into submission as often as possible, which typically would require a physical body in space and time. However, perhaps a physical body needn’t be required if we piped a nice [tinny] audio stream into the room as the live interaction winds itself down.
But that all goes without stating the obvious: if the instigator of improvisational inquiry has no chunky terrestrial body of which to speak, then why should the foil of the piece remain a solid entity? That just puts the burden on them, don’t you see? Having all of those internal organs thinly covered by what’s basically just a fleshy layer of napkins (and not the two-ply kind)… it’s dangerous! I won’t stand for reckless endangerment in the name of creativity.
Braggadocious surrogate behavior
ties real-time stomach knots
in this observer. Either
buy that croissant
or step out of line, lady.
What the hell do we even write about anymore?
Why does every single new idea
have this immense scrutiny attached to it–
this, the next in my sequence of work
after this whole COVID- dilemma kicked off.
How would one go about this treacherous task
that I would argue nobody wants to undertake?
Well, the first impression of the situation
would be that you should just get started.
But there are so many previously-made characters
just waiting for me to observe their every move
on the silver screen!!
Nobody calls it the silver screen anymore, hon.
Aw, shut up. You never let me wax aquarium.
I mean antiquarian. Same thing.
It’s obviously a completely different thing.
One involves some weird combination of wax and water,
the other is old timey shit.
Well, I meant the old shit, duh.
Anyway, I can’t wait to just dig into
another drama or comedy
or whatever shit they’re shoveling these days
over at the old network of flix.
And now that I’m standing here
thinking about it,
I can’t stand just being here
without reasonable computer access.
What do you mean,
we’re literally on a computer screen.
We could just walk two inches to the right
and bump into a browser window with let’s see…
oh, not the porn one.
But it looks like that Stephen Hawking movie
was the last thing of repute in his history.
Oh, how was that?
Yeah, not bad. Pretty damn stylized,
but what do you expect from a movie
that’s supposed to undertake the monumental task
of depicting the 20th Century’s most prominent
cosmological luminary
while addressing his ALS?
They covered his whole life?
Nah, just a scrapbook of mostly decent memories
up until the point where his older kids are teenagers
and running around in some Buckingham Palace bullshit.
Oh, okay.
Ever-prepared to twist a flask
through momentary fence slat openings–
tirelessly striving
to bounce among the crows
while somehow maintaining resistance
to cherry pie allures–
this bagel hoarder fails to stay a caricature;
his age includes his visions,
inquiries and musings.
His daily hike through neighbors’ sheep farms
dusts his mind, aerates his neurons
and rolls crisp–
long as the hills tumble green
with moss-padding deer,
caws carrying gaiety
over the hours, sometimes damp.
———-
First draft posted to WHARVED on Jan 11, 2012, Entitled “#82”
WHARVED 