Idiomatic – Page 14

For Chrissakes

I’m on the lookout for something
that would equate to the latest and greatest
set of schemes for the purpose of concocting
an ever-present kind of medley (be it tuna,
musical or squash related is up to you,
o glorious reader and acknowledger of all things bulbous
(bulbous, also tapered), that’s right).

It’s time once again for the severe squid dance we’ve come to know as the contortiontella, developed by only the meanest and leanest of all pac man impersonators and founded on the principle that only hoomans may have the kind of sentience that the more eccentric among our ranks would like to imbue upon our pets. You know as well as I that only dogs have even a modicum of humanity within them, and that’s because they realized over time that the less they tore us up with their superior jaws, the more benefits they could gain from running in our peculiar packs and securing lifelong food supplies.

Got any more clichés for me today, Pinhead Ronny? I should hope not, for Chrissakes.

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.

Crossroads

John Park-Carr and Parlor Trick Johnson met at the R&D Deli one fine Swedish afternoon for a round of aquavit and a fat-chewing session.

JPC: “What’s new with you, brother?”

PTJ: “Not much, the Magic Johnson impersonation business is still dragging, thought it would’ve picked up by now. Youth sports leagues have gotten savvier at this point–they’d rather get an actual basketball player, even if they’re not a household name, or even in the NBA at all. Turns out people aren’t in the business of taking tips from color commentators at local high school games.”

JPC: “That’s too bad, man. I hope business picks up for you soon.”

PTJ: “Yeah, I don’t think it’s going to happen. I feel fortunate that I have a little nest egg saved up for a crossroads just like this. I’m going to take some time off and figure out what I really want to do with the rest of my prime money-earning years.”

JPC: “You’ve always been a visionary, man. I look forward to hearing about what you’re cooking up. Myself, I’m just gonna keep valeting around town. The money’s decent enough, not like I have a wife and kids to feed or anything. Easy peasy. You know, I did think for a minute about starting my own valet company, being as my name is Park-Carr, for cryin’ out loud. I’m pretty sure that about half of my new client acquisition would just be answering the ol’ ‘Is John Park-Carr really your name? Seems a tad on the nose for a valet guy, no?’ I’m still on the fence about it, as you may rightly understand.”

Retreat

This insinuative retreat right here
will find us contemplating
wellness regeneration
at the bitter end of firsts,
where we ultimately unwind
the flitting intricacies
formally acquainted with the frigid
bridges of the morn,
or what we would otherwise call
the belaying of the holy trinity
(deployment of proper parsonage,
delayment of prosperous personage).

In one word or another,
we’re all glad to be cloaked
in that vinegar-spritzer veil
associated with the sleaziest

cashier chicken spirit sprints.

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.

Poet on a Laptop in a Coffeeshop

So here’s what’s going to happen now. There sits a person to my left whom I believe is comparing their outward appearance and behavior to me at this moment, I’m not sure why. It’s quite possible that I have heinously misdiagnosed the situation, and this individual doesn’t give a second shit–let alone a first–about it. Honestly, I still haven’t even looked over at them, which I’m assuming they would interpret as strange.

If I were more swept up
by those weird social ticks
displayed on a regular basis
by our average arena-dwellers,
I may have already regarded this person
in some shape or form, but I flat out
just don’t care an ounce.

Now what does that make me? Am I some kind of hypocrite, expecting people to be attracted to my persona/aura and then rejecting them as soon as the convenience and luster of their adoration wears off? Jeez, that sounds pretty brutal. I’m just going to work off of the assumption that these folks are a little needier than the average bear, and they’re working out their emotional stuff on perfect strangers.

After all, those random
Jake and Jackie Terwilligers out there
are the ultimate barometers of who we are
in a social context, no?

Trivial Matters

As midlevel leisure enthusiasts,
we have always preferred
sipping
iced tea
on only the loveliest of summer days–
is that a stale interpretation?

Because, truth be told,
we could be the bandwagon kind of folk
who only drink iced tea
on the sun porch
in otherwise scorching conditions,
our enclosed little patio-area the only respite
when a cross-breeze comes rolling through.

No, I’m talking
temperate conditions
where you could really take it or leave it
(as far as a cool beverage is concerned).
It would even be bordering on the cusp of preferring
a lukewarm or even full-on warm beverage
if we were on the more neutral end of temperature concerns.

That’s not what I’m talking about here.
It’s crucial that you understand
my delicate position on this matter.

It’s usually not long after positing such a polarizing statement that I would be rebuffed with counter arguments stating the absurdity of equating a particular kind of climate/weather condition with the kind of beverage preferred during said time, at which time I would widely rebuke the person/s responsible for the indignation. What kind of boring life must you be leading if you have nothing better to do than debate someone over the importance, nay, relevance, of climate and beverage temperature comparison?!

I tend to get heated over trivial matters.
You got a problem with that?