Exuberance flies through the mouth of a hog;
that tenderloin needs a few days.
Burrow in a barn and send up a flare
when the farmer picks up his old pitchfork.
The crows don’t seem to mind the cold;
they didn’t invest in a timeshare.
The kitchen smells like onions and bacon grease.
A gaunt man wearing a fur hat and beat up blue parka twiddles his thumbs on a Sunday morning in Central Park.
A casual observer would ask: “Well isn’t there a chess game he could be playing right now? I mean, who twiddles his thumbs these days anyway? Is he counting the number of twiddles? How many twiddles are possible in a minute? How long has he been twiddling? Maybe he twiddled here last night and kept twiddling straight through to the dawn. God, I’ve been standing here observing this man, and I’m afraid to go up and ask him what his deal is.”
The refrigerator holds an endless supply of charming dental whiplash for perusal at a moment’s notice; territorial shotgunning beating corridor hymnals to the moon and back with exceptional speed.
Suspend images through honey rollers and feather breakneck sausage patties atop unlaid bricks and mortar. It doesn’t take much when you really think about it.
The versatile, edible almond–taken for granted–roasted, salted, packed into tins. They wait, unbreathing. They see the intricacies of the rigid universe–the spheres and hues and flocking birds–from their sealed vantage point. They take it higher, to philosophy, faith and free will. They struggle to imagine how their brethren must feel out in the air, mobile and frolicking.
Then the time comes–they’re sold from the shelf and taken to a suburban single-family home. A mother’s hand blends them with other trail mix elements–raisins, pretzels, seeds and chocolate bits, all gasping freedom for those sweet few seconds. Then they’re sealed in a tupperware and relegated to the pantry.
United in their unrelenting tender curiosity, the diverse bunch engages in a forum covering ideal existence–the tupperware tips them into snack bags as they reminisce over the life they lived with their snack-based kindred souls.
The final frontier awaits them now, the mystery of the brown paper bag.
Throw a new decision on the pile;
it smolders like burning birch bark.
For a few seconds it warms your hands,
affirming your difficult choice–then
it falters and vanishes into the breeze,
getting soot in your eye; stand upwind!
You’re quick to whip up in a frenzy,
but your eyes won’t be fixed by frustration.
Run to the nearest fresh water source,
rinse out those false hopes, dearest.
A soggy beach ball wedged between cotton sheets
spreads noiseless destruction when left unattended.
It’s hiding from a magnified truth, something once folded
that now imposes a grapevine of extra-strength aspirin.
Semi-deflated and drumming with concern, slippery when wet;
always cornered, cowering from preconceived needles.
Stalactites still lack tights and make Superman blush.
Suspended, drooling–more powerful than a locomotive.
Air France lost seventeen of its planes last evening.
They’ll show up eventually, they always do.
Setbacks? You lose a couple dollars, you spring back
with a chip on your shoulder. Go get the dip, dearie.
WHARVED 