Category: Poetry

Figurative beads of sweat pepper the steak’s interior as it sizzles upon the grill, understanding nothing, as its tissues contain no cerebral cortex. No brain, no wits, just a slab of meat. Lifeless, tender, able to be thrown about a hundred feet by anyone willing to try. Skip gave it a whirl just last week, earned himself fourteen dollars for the effort. After it was all finished, he said his rotator cuff was acting funny. He didn’t think the cut of beef would be quite that big. He plans to sue the cow for negligence, as it failed to be there to tell him what the butcher did to its sirloin. Irregular cuts of beef are costing this nation an arm and a leg. Why it was just yesterday that Milly kicked a floppy old flank steak and twisted her knee on the follow-through. This entire situation is getting out of control, and nobody’s stepping up to take charge. This meaty menace has gone from the butcher’s block to the murderer’s rampage, and there’s not a man, woman or child with the guts to stop it.

So what if I struggle for no reward? Nobody really understands why I do it, and they fail to see that the reward is the act itself! It would take a fool to get up one morning and say “you know, I think I’ll be a chicken wrestler” like they’ll just own the world and brush us all off like dandruff. First of all, they have to catch their own fowl. Nobody tells you that little tidbit in the Chicken Wrestling Handbook. Every sparring match with a neighborhood bird has to be earned through sweat and blood. Back before computers, we had to go out and find our own birds! Can you imagine that? Nowadays, everybody just hops on the ebays and buys a chicken from thin air. Hogwash, they’re not real wrestlers! They’re cheap scam artists who won’t get an ounce of satisfaction from ambushing a clueless chicken in a box with air holes. Of course if you knew all this, I wouldn’t have to lecture you on the subject. But no, you seem to think that my passion is all just a big fat joke. Keep laughing, pretty boy. Just wait until we all have to help wrangle the loose chickens in our co-ops after we fritter away all our hard-earned electricity. It was my parents’ generation that put us on the map, and your generation is stomping all over that same hand-drawn masterpiece of a society. Hogwash. None of you are real wrestlers. Get out of my way, it’s time for my popsicle.

I worked on a rig or two in my day. I was the guy that convinced Lovely Pete to get a garbage disposal. Remember when he was just tossing his old vegetables in the trash like a savage? I changed that in a hurry. He honestly had no idea that flesh-eating bacteria could spread through his kitchen like the plague without one of those machines. I don’t have to tell you how it works, do I? You’re so forgetful, sometimes I wonder why I come to your office for advice. Okay, for the last time. Every disposal comes pre-equipped with a garden gnome strapped to the bottom that punches bacteria before it reaches the vegetables you grind up. Come on, you’ve had one of these for four years now, don’t you remember the living, breathing denizen below your sink? Come to think of it, those guys only have a five-year warranty. Have you checked under the hood lately? I’ve heard of gnome-resistant bacteria being spread through disposals across the state. You really have to be careful where you get your produce these days. It has to be shrink wrapped in the supermarket fridge for you to be sure that it won’t melt your face off. The better brands will have a label of some sort that lets you know that they’ve invested good time and money into fighting this raging illness. I like to try to spend my hard-earned money on brands that contribute part of their profits to charities, especially ones involving kids. Baby goats have a special place in my heart, as you should remember. You’re such a forgetful psychologist, I don’t know how you still have your license.

Pull tangerine windows out of thin air and ask me for a raise? I might consider it when your cheetah production subsides. I can’t have you bringing large cats into absolutely every sales pitch. That’s just unprofessional, giblethead. Do you understand the bind that puts me in? A lot of those cats are hungry. And what do they see? Fleshy, complacent and delicious humans that can’t even run to the mailbox to get their bills. The last thing these people want to be thinking about is death, you incompetent feline conjurer! I’m giving you another chance, but for Christ’s sake, don’t ask me for a raise in front of my wife when I’m making love to her! You know how uncomfortable that makes her, let alone myself. How do you expect me to perform in such mediocre and ludicrous conditions? Are you going to join in and get this awkwardness over with, or will you just keep staring and pretending you don’t know what you’re doing with your life? It’s bad enough that you asked my daughter out to prom when she was 23. Do you have any conception of what it means to be an average human? You have to do the simple arithmetic that the rest of us do. Six plus seven means you’re an unlucky SOB, and the last thing you should be talking to me about is a raise in wages. We pay you peanuts, and you should be used to that scale by now. No way are we going to upgrade you to carrots or bull testicles, you haven’t earned that distinction yet. Lord, why are you still here?! If I were you, I’d be talking up clients and falsely raising their hopes about an upcoming apocalypse– for your sake and mine.

It’s the positive spin that drives all interaction on a daily basis, but we all know that delusions keep us from maintaining that positivity. Just like last week when I told Joey that I slashed his tires. He picked a big fight with me for no reason. I said hey dude, listen up. I slashed your tires to keep you from driving under the influence when you’re with your lady! He took a couple more swings at me, then finally listened to reason when I slugged him with a tire iron. Sometimes you just can’t help people, you know?

After every meal, I take a spoon and look at my reflection. Sometimes it’s upside down and I frown. Tomorrow I plan to bring an umbrella to the dinner table, to combat the lack of a roof over my head. I knew going into the purchase of my home that a roof is one of the more important things to have, but the realtor gave me such a great deal! I’m not bitter, I don’t have buyer’s remorse. I stick my chin up and catch the raindrops in my mouth. Nothing’s more refreshing than rainwater. The money I saved on this house went into buying waterproof objects of all shapes and sizes. Sure, my fingers are constantly pruny during a stretch of rain, but I’ve found that I can grip things much better that way. I’ve begun testing a hypothesis regarding the similarity of my pruny fingers to the sticky fingertips of a gecko; I think that the longer my fingers stay pruned up, the more sensitive they become. It is my natural assumption that if I live in a constant state of pruny fingers for a decade or so, I may be able to grip onto surfaces (walls, ceilings, etc.) and convey myself in a way that no other human ever has. If you’d be so kind as to leave me alone and come back when I’ve made some progress in this experiment, I would very much appreciate it.

A terror grips me as I skip through the daisies. This particular terror has been present in my subconscious for several months prior to this moment, and as I glance over my shoulder, a bear stands several dozen yards behind me in the clearing. I release all the stress and disillusionment from my being, as I know bears sensing fear will instinctively go for the jugular. Once I go limp, the bear saunters directly over to me. Mind you, there is no malice in this bear’s gait, nor do I feel any ill will emanating from its movements. I stand and watch the bear come ever closer. Foot by foot, it’s taking its time. It stops two feet in front of me and sits upon its haunches, waiting for me to do something. I blow it a kiss and wink. The bear looks puzzled. I giggle for a few seconds. The bear looks more puzzled. I reach out with my right arm, and the bear retreats a few inches before it realizes that I mean no harm whatsoever. It inches up to my hand with its snout and gives it a good whiff. I then gingerly rub the fur on top of its snout, to show my good nature and desire to be friends. The bear opens its mouth: “Never have I seen a human of your caliber in this daisy field. Would you like to ride on my back and go to a pond with me?” I immediately fling myself onto its back and grab hold of one of its ears. Little do I know that bears hate when anyone touches their ears. It yelps in self-consciousness and lumbers away. I shrug and go on my way.