Picking up where we left off
shouldn’t be too much of a hindrance
to us this evening. Sometimes
an elegant tail-end reception fiasco
is just what you need
that end-of-days proceedings
are kicked off in style.
Do we have a believable universe here? Do we have a character with whom we would like to share our collective journeys? If we have no character identification, then why is this even being proposed at all?
Are we so obsessed with plot that we fail to build our world model around anything else? I would say no, but I’ve been programmed to provide that answer. For you see, I come from simple means. My mother was a mushroom forager and my father took his canoe from out of the barn one day and paddled out of our lives forever. I had a herniated vertebra in my back from the ages of four to thirteen, after which time a medical miracle cure fixed it permanently. Now I only have to deal with the crippling daily hallucinations involving my needless slaughter at the hands of a cult of murderous clowns.
But enough about me, I’m sure you all have dealt with various traumas in your lives and you’d rather not hear the boring details of mine. You see, I’m generally a very simple person with very few wants or needs at the end of the day. I put on my pants one leg at a time, just like everyone else. Well, aside from the fact that I need to have my pants made custom to accommodate the extra leg I sprouted a little while back (maybe a complication from that miracle back cure, who knows?). Well, calling it a full-blown leg is a bit generous, but you get the gist.
Petrification process, present yourself!
Not yet, eh? Why not?
Not talking, eh? Stubborn one, aren’t we?
Well, if you won’t talk, then I’ll just have to be the one to break the ice.
Once upon a time, a fly buzzed around from place to place. Its favorite place to land was upon the top spike of a stegosaurus’ back. Didn’t matter which particular specimen, as long as the spike was at the highest point of the animal.
It may seem odd that I’m mentioning a fly’s perching preference, but by the time I’m done explaining why, you will have–at the very least–a beginner’s understanding as to how futile our existence proves to be over the course of time.
I have now finished my explanation, in case you weren’t aware.
Journeyman centenarian, your
squadron of sheep hurlers
begged you to curdle off the cliff
while dangling circumlindrically–
as though in a play.
No such luck.
Life is a raised platform,
gawking peanut gallery
all around, over-adorned yaps
toward a permanent problem.
The plight of the talented
is wasted on the non-observant.
Presented to my field of vision
on the perilous eve of Hitler’s birthday:
one brilliant cardinal couple,
ruby red, vermilion.
I remember the story of eagles,
who hunted the lightning snakes
to protect oblivious humanity–
floating where they don’t belong–
from their own untimely end.
Nature allows us to gather
and worship at her feet–if only
we scrape together enough respect
through meditation and mindfulness.
I preyed upon myself
through lack of imposed restriction
and dearth of self-shepherding.
Anything was–and still is–possible
when given the proper attention
or suitable elbow grease.
But who did I think I was fooling?
Certainly not myself:
Enigmatic Pilgrim Extraordinaire[!]
performing dichotomous dives
into shallower waters for all to watch–
on an annual basis.
I could have sold tickets
to these affairs. At least then
I wouldn’t be mired in so much debt.
If only I brandish a magic wand
and distract that Paleolithic peabrain
while my other hand composes tarantellas
or masters new guitar chords
to incorporate into the cliché magnum opus
that I’ve been planning since,
oh I don’t know… birth.
Facile fabrication comes with half-price wine and a half-decent idea of what it means to be a cut-rate pilgrim on the eve of the seventh tardigrade.
So now, Jimber Unfletching Libberdijibbet (that’s his stage name) has a bone to pick with the absurd nature of his very existence on this here rock orbiting a mid-grade star of no particular distinction. For one: how could his sorry-ass soul have been picked to inhabit a corporeal manifestation of this godforsaken planet? His mind simply wasn’t malleable enough to adapt to such mental calisthenics, even if said activities only constituted a sixteenth of one morning each second Thursday after waterobics.
He needed a tutor of sorts to escort him down the row of unconcerned minds, so he could become one of those most-enviable kinds of folks who look so cool that their general demeanor forces them to do everything but justify the wherewithal that led the to cultivate such a persona in the first place.
But, after all, we happen to inhabit an age of severe impressionology. I can see I may have lost you on that last one. It’s essentially a myriad of minuscule multiplicities as seen through the eyes of numerous (some would say innumerable) individuals, wherein people tend to default toward the middle of the pack so as to avoid embarrassing themselves in front of those in the know.
Owning up to the egregious malfunctions
held as the standard in social technology,
we must become better initiators of cosmic (or
at least karmic) change for the sake of our
This bleak mindset–perpetuated to depress
the more sensitive-types and appease the oligarchs
for some preordained time–was perhaps
meant more for the unfolding
stalling of unified civility, or
just as some kind of morose cash grab.
The only ones who definitively know
where this particular roller coaster is headed
will also be the ones in the frying pan–come judgment day.
The justice system may not be done after all;
the ones who had hijacked office may snap
back to their senses before all is lost.
Endorphin meltdowns scream incontinence!
Mind you, this doesn’t mean we need to
get on our hands and knees and scrape the shit
from incompetent postal workers’ satchels.
We simply need to make a stand
for what’s good and proper in this,
our world of *TODAY ONLY* $19.99 deals.
Got to move that product, for Christ’s sake!