Category: Numbered

Bombastic rhythm
leads to cool ivory tinkling,
always beating on the two and four–
the lub-dup that keeps us all honest–
binding us to the time
we only think we created
until we hear the birds and crickets again.
They’re the original jazz musicians
who gave us the meters
we eventually wrote down as gospel.

Bootlegging lost all its appeal
once they started to make
genuine Rubber Duckies again.
Sure, there’ll continue to be
a market for the knockoffs
and demand won’t be any lower,
but my heart just isn’t in it anymore.
I was a rabid proponent for access
to high-quality imitation ducks
once we learned the connection
between enjoyable baths and longer lifespans.
I made it my life’s mission to provide
nostalgic bathtime to as many individuals
as possible, especially those on a budget.
I never could quite replicate
the color and squeak of the original,
so I knew that once the prohibition ended
I’d feel like a fool if I continued
pushing my makeshift Latex Duckers.

Pressure rarely leads to the best possible work.
At least, that’s what my psychic said to me
last time I had an evening reading
(morning readings are less practical, I’ve found).
I’m supposed to cut out the carbohydrates
and soak in a pool for at least three hours a day,
preferably deprived of all sensory stimuli.
If I can squeeze it in, I’ve also been urged
to adopt any stray animals I come across–
even tame-looking wild ones, if I can.
No matter what animal I start taking care of,
they must be fed a regimented diet
of broccoli, cottage cheese and morel mushrooms.
I’ve been promised that if I take all those steps,
I’ll be cool as a cucumber in no time, also
several steps closer to that thing we call God.

Riffing on a common trait
seems to stall
the heavy-lifting popinjays
who would otherwise flit
everywhere they see fit,
even if it’s for only a second or two.

Remark that their eyes are brown
like your own, and you’ll see
their gaudy robes and jangling chains
cease movement for a moment
as they question your motives
and likely come back with a
“you know, brown is such a mundane word
when you can use umber or sienna.”

Keep on looking for similarities.
Though you know that list is short,
you’ll be doing your part
to delay the slow decay of modernity,
one astute observation at a time.

What’s to be gained from a margarine syndicate stealing all of our top talent in the butter biz? An inside source told me that they’re working to eradicate all fatty cream-based substances, one well-placed marketing campaign at a time. It won’t be long now before even milk–the very foundation of instant nutrition in the 20th Century–loses its credibility to whey protein substitutes. Cows are under the gun to come up with a new self-sustaining product to keep their farmers from foreclosing. Hoof paintings will likely be their first foray, as the arts have proven time and again to be quite the lucrative undertaking.

A humble statistician
sets up shop in the park,
thinking the squirrels
may cheer him up
after a morning of nothing more
than menial chores, dross
that bogged him down
and had him contemplating
a life worth living–ultimately
outside of his house (or,
heaven forbid, the office).
At this point in his life, he views
work and domestic activities
to be more or less equally disturbing,
yet chooses to continue both
as a way of channelling the great
collective misery and rooting him
firmly to the soil he honestly wishes
would give way and swallow him up.

At 1:23pm, two Washingtons
and a Jefferson converge
in the change of a dime store
hipster with more common sense
than would normally be allowed
for a person who spends so much
time out and about, strutting
through campuses and chatting up
interesting individuals who cross
his path–even the unsavory ones
whom his parents warned against
when he was a smaller person–
engaging in light-hearted conversation
regarding the economy, politics,
race relations, what have you.