Albacore dreams float soundless,
drop to sediment, petrify
and wash up:
broken empty shells
inflicting wounds at will.
All the lost blood
on the beach,
the sand gulps it and dives
Burrowed in muck,
all the ‘O’s and ‘AB’s
reaffirm their common lineages,
summoning up a plume of sanguinary vitality
(luring jerky lurker sharks
near the shore to nip some ‘A+’
from a lazing boogie boarder–
that type’s always running low
for some reason).
Original draft posted to WHARVED on 3/2/12,
Belt the roast torpedo chicken espresso trepidation
between undertow scripture merriment
before tomorrow feels golf handler syndrome takers.
Upon victory garden memory quickeners
preside bacon cheerleaders,
content to scythe some grain,
unwind a bird line into chocolate cave platypuses.
Tom was a simple boy, never ventured too far away from his home because he figured home was a microcosm of the greater world, any unexplored tracts reserved for other people of existence, their place separate from his, and he was just fine with that.
Mingle amongst ribbon galoshes,
puddle champagne reed pushers beyond any barley crop–
unbeknownst to Gertrude,
trace forks and spoons
along the monument to any fallen porcupine quill,
infinitesimally uncomfortable through shadows and mean chickadees.
Originally posted to WHARVED on 1/7/12,
entitled #81 (first numbered series)
Fire lit by tonsillitis
stalls the candlestick vendor.
This is a flame
that must be conquered
with a knife,
simply won’t cut it.
Go under and collect
that won’t be remembered
until a moment
in another dreaming state
(which will also be forgotten
until consciousness melds with chaos
and uploads all of life’s raw data
to the infinite abyss, images
blurring with thoughts and emotions
while sounds and textures follow suit
in an infinitely-faceted patchwork).
Picture a rogue squadron of down-filled pencil pushers coordinating a squalid attempt at what they believe to be a most fertile salad dressing, but what we know to be a seasonal jaunt through the woods in search of pine cones shaped like Abe Lincoln. Gettysburg hasn’t been relevant for some time now, but that doesn’t stop our friends from trudging through the underbrush and raising alarms every time they see leaves in clumps of three.
They know not what makes a salad dressing more fertile than any other, and they don’t even claim to assume what constitutes your average dressing, fertile or barren. They simply know that their amalgamation has yet to be approved by any regulatory body and they’re just going by the seat of their pants and trusting that their instincts will lead them down the tastiest road, be it nutritious or otherwise.
A faction of our dressing doers have found it more pertinent to skate through the town square with cheese in their britches, convinced that dressing has no bearing on the legitimacy of a salad. Their position stokes outrage amongst their peers; how could a salad be considered legitimate in this world if it hasn’t been coated in oily goodness? The two camps are at odds with one another, and the argument won’t be settled until the blood of the innocent flows through the streets.
The freeloading, lance tossing, hand jiving, bank robbing, heavy lifting, double dipping, chain smoking, dry heaving and life-living individual spent his time in the service of other people, content to take a backseat to the callous know-it-alls who tossed their rhetoric around the block in bite-sized snippets designed to appease the masses and challenge nobody while making a big stink about absolutely nothing.
Our hero (of little merit other than existing and rubbing noses in their various messes) felt that no awkward position could upend his potential as a beacon for human improvement in the face of an ever-widening fissure that threatened to wreak havoc on the lives of those who’d become uncomfortable in their mundane rituals, and his efforts would pay off sooner than later, believe it or not. Monetary compensation would be nice, but he understood that his reward would be more significant in the grand scheme of creative endeavors, a lasting mark on the face of what would soon be called the Canon of Collective Creation, curated by none other than the forlorn dish jockey who spins yarns to pass the time while he hardens his hands under scalding water in the kitchen of a high-volume restaurant on a Saturday afternoon just after the brunch rush but right before the dinner rush, where there’s still a decent contingency of people streaming in but even more making their way out because it’s no longer fashionable to sit at a dirty table twenty minutes after the server dropped the check.
Today I flattened a screwdriver with only the power of my mind. All I had to do was look at it with the intent to change its physical properties, and BAM, flatter than a doornail (that’s been flattened, that is). In my short time of having this ability–two weeks this Saturday–I’ve flattened objects big and small, pliable and rigid. So far I’ve flattened corkscrews, pickles, baseball cards, lawn chairs, lawn darts, lawn mowers, garden gnomes and neighborhood cats (I usually stick to backyard objects). My need to flatten is insatiable, much to the chagrin of my neighbors. I haven’t attempted to flatten people, I don’t need to get into any unnecessary trouble if I can help it.
But if I had to, I’d start with Phil from next door. The only problem is that I just know my appetite would grow uncontrollable from there. Not long after, I’d need to flatten heads of state and big business owners just to get the same rush I’d become accustomed to since flattening the likes of my lowly neighbor, whose only mark on society is the number of cable/internet/home phone bundles he’s sold. His flattening would be a merciful one.
Equal parts snickering and jibbering, flouncing and denouncing, partying and Martying and sipping and tipping have led us to this culminating moment, and this revelatory juncture alone will fix us up with the karmic indifference we should inevitably come to view as necessary, should we ever put on roller skates and glide down the lakeshore on the manmade path designed for smooth wheeled transport (nothing more, nothing less). That day will come only when we’ve reached the conclusion that our soul clarity is above average, and yadda yadda yadda, here’s some more hippy dippy rhetoric to be restricted to only eight select individuals on the planet, each division roughly the equivalent of a slice of a New York pie and only half as appetizing. The other people who occupy space on our same plane of existence will only surmise their positions on the karmic totem pole and wander–trudge–through the rest of the week with no common purpose readily apparent to them, lost to be found once the tide comes in.