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
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.
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?
As midlevel leisure enthusiasts,
we have always preferred
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
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?
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.
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.
It would appear as though I’m getting somewhat flummoxed at the disregarding chagrin our elders heap upon us one at a time by the out-turned burlap sackful as we billowing travelers have nothing better to do than adjust our expectations and run with the idiocy. Lack of a better option? More likely a surplus of crippling anxiety and sneaking suspicion that this generation is going to die out soon enough anyway, so why engage with them at all when we could be pursuing our own noble causes and callings?
so you’re saying that they’ve been indoctrinating their families and offspring into the cult of reaction, that distinct line of cash grabs formed out of boredom and greed by the people just smart enough to get how the whole system works but also evil enough to profit unscrupulously from it?
So I can’t just sit back and tend my garden of unconcern? Friggin’ bummer, man.
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.