Skin of a boa constrictor left dangling on a branch in the twilight of the twenty-third week of the fifty-sixth year of our Lord holds its hollow scales, petrified of drying up in the glare of tomorrow’s sun, that chapping tyrant.
Category: Poetry
I Can’t Have That, Lord Almighty
Lord almighty, I kicked up a rally.
You’ll have to forgive me for being so quaint.
My oversized novelty carnival stand
just collapsed in the middle of Mardi Gras.
Now what am I going to do?
I can’t very well walk to the old police station,
they’ll laugh at my shirt and applaud for the stupid.
They’ll applaud for the stupid is what they’ll do
and I can’t have that, Lord almighty.
Hungry Young Magnet Eater
For all I know, we could be tossed aside
for a hungry young magnet eater
drenched in blue cheese
with a sprig of parsley
and a dash of pepper.
Too edible to laugh at,
too deplorable to eat.
Only the richest of kings
could afford
a meal of such grandiose proportions.
Kicking the Can
“Yeah, the marmot’s a little shaggy. So what? No skin off your ass.” Harold kicked the can down the road, glaring at Rhonda all the while.
“You are rude. The marmot needs a clipping ASAP and you don’t even care.” Rhonda flushed with righteous indignation, the color of kool aid. She fixed her vision on the can Harold was kicking.
“As I’ve said a hundred times, the marmot is fine. End of story.” The can was getting quite dented, a standard aluminum soda can that doesn’t have the protection necessary to shield from foot contact.
“This isn’t a story. What is this la-la land you inhabit?” She was still transfixed on the can and getting rather tormented by the fact that this narrative could indeed morph into an epic tale the world has never yet seen.
“Everything’s a story. Most of them get lost because nobody wrote them down.” He stopped kicking the can and looked at Rhonda. “I don’t have a pen.”
“So now what do we do? Find a pen? That would make a great story.”
Harold had the look of a toddler who just learned his first swear word. “You’re right.”
“We’re making a story now? I thought we were just kicking that can!” Gesturing to the can with her left hand, Rhonda choked back tears (fake or genuine, she wasn’t sure), hoping to get out of another half-baked idea that Harold always seemed to be coming up with these days.
@ ∂ (•)
@: Do you want a carrot?
∂: I thought you’d never ask.
Wow, these are fresh.
Where’d you get ’em?
@: If I tell you that, it won’t be a secret anymore!
∂: Isn’t that why I asked?
@: Oh you.
∂: Now I really want to know.
@: What’s to know? It’s just a bag of carrots.
∂: The freshest carrots I’ve ever laid eyes on.
@: You’re not getting that information from me without a fight.
∂: Fisticuffs? I’ll throw down.
@: No, I meant trivia.
∂: How can we play trivia without an impartial judge?
•: Dudes, I’m right here!
@: SHIT, Darwin. You scared the bejesus outta me.
∂: God dammit, me too.
•: I brought my trivial pursuit this time.
∂: Good, ’cause if you didn’t…
@: Ease up on him, he’s just a kid.
•: I sleep the best at naptime. Is it naptime yet?
Ordinary Notions of a Hoedown
Nevertheless, we’re in the thick of it now.
No sunblock or pineapples jumping the fence
in the face of a malnourished grasshopper kid.
How can Abraham and Vijay idly string along like that?
You’d think their tap dance rhythm had diminished since the fire.
But there they are, a clopping pair bereft of innovation
and clinging to their ordinary notions of a hoedown.
Entering Onion Country
When I need an escape and a relinquishment of frustration, I head on down to Dave’s Onion Bar. Twenty-four years ago, Dave realized his boyhood dream of preparing onions 101 ways. Many of said preparations are redundancies, but it’s difficult to discover new ways to cook food after thousands of years of innovations in the arena. All in all, Dave grins from ear to ear whenever he meets a new customer. Every table has a complimentary bowl of after-dinner mints to combat the fact that 100% of his dishes are at least halfway-composed of onion. Surprisingly, not a single patron has ever complained about the lack of variety. They know heading into the place that onions are their destination. In fact, there’s a sign in front that boldly states: “ENTERING ONION COUNTRY”.
WHARVED 