non sequitur – Page 13

By Golly

Not a single malicious [delicious] punch thrown
at this,
the most cylindrical of all
furniture sales expos in recent memory!
That is one variable we [at the bureau]
may be sure of at this time.

Meanwhile, for the gangly ones wishing
to catch up with contemporary carpentry,
one might say–in a pinch–
that the craft has taken quite a turn
in the public eye, and no measure of friezes
or Constantinoplization
may alter the involuntary sway, by golly.

And now you know.

However, once the mariner’s bowline
slips off that buoy,
I am in no way accountable
for your alleged pesto allergies.

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.

In Retrospect

Fetushead was a teacher of mine
who usually kept his temper in check,
but one day he lashed out at our class
when we weren’t paying attention to him
(we couldn’t answer the questions he asked).

There was something going on in his personal life
that caused him substantial stress,
but we students had no clue, being dumb kids at the time.

In retrospect,
perhaps
the fetus for a head

would have contributed to his overall grouchy demeanor
in that situation (and every other he would come to navigate).

That he kept his cool
for so much of the time
was taken for granted by
we,
the snot-nosed punks of
Lower Utilitaria,
the hallowed gated community founded by
J. Rick Rubins,
the only exalted LEADER that our planet can trust
to usher us into the 22nd Century we deserve.

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.

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.

Absurdity Is Rampant

Absurdity is rampant, all you jelly bean mongers out there (and aspiring monger-types who just haven’t caught your big break yet (it’s coming, trust me))!

The point here is the absurdity of even doing anything at all, let alone to the point where we can press our most sacred thoughts into lasting pellets of intuition and wildly disseminate them–in perpetuity–across the universe.

Effort would be considered the lion’s share of the process; it’s not the transcendence of this field of shapes and arbitrary sets of value, no, how could it be? For we are but simple field mice, content to labor our way through all hours of the day, afraid to look up or take pause.

Fear of the finite, the decay, the ruination of our children within, we clutch to anything resembling the womb.

But to state these maladies is only to bring attention back to that stale old paradigm, failing to uplift, only presenting symptoms of the perpetual problems while offering no solutions. What are we to do? Dive into some kind of fantastic phantasmagorical wonderscape?

Gretchen Ann simply needed to demonstrate the breadth of her innate yodeling abilities. Never once a formal student of the craft, her superb tonality and unapologetic virtuosity always brought her audience–usually herself–to the verge of emotional breakdown.