I thrifted a dingo from a local wildlife sell-off emporium; the fella had a cartridge for a brain. Wild this dingo was not, likely built by an animal replicator to decorate the grasslands, pre-programmed to bark at sudden movements. I took out the cartridge with care, blew into it and replaced it. The only change I noticed was a small tick that popped off every thirty seconds or so. I removed the cartridge once more and got the inside with a moist cotton swab. This time the dingo froze completely, and I took it back for a full refund, only to learn that all sales are final. My inanimate dingo friend now stands in the living room, staring at the TV.
Category: Poetry
A Good Book or Two
Now that I’ve achieved
all my hopes and dreams,
even the ones
that had been abandoned
at previous times of weakness,
I can finally settle down
and write a good book or two.
After all, people like me
need to display their success
and offer a way for others
to enter that picture, even if
that means charging $24.99
for such invaluable advice.
The Kitsch Factor
Forty-five dollars
is a somewhat outrageous price
for this vintage cigarette case.
It doesn’t even have
any bells or whistles
to sweeten the deal,
just a spring hinge
and a picture of a schooner.
I’m not what you would call
a boating enthusiast,
I’d just be getting it
for the kitsch factor.
Hell, I don’t even smoke.
It May Be Hiding
When inspiration fails to strike,
don’t give up on pursuing
the elusive beast known as creativity.
It may be hiding in the bushes
just behind you, waiting to pounce
when you’re least suspecting,
poised on its haunches
and not daring to make a sound.
As you stumble around,
creativity is looking for any excuse
to ambush you and drag you
down to the stream of consciousness.
Purely by Accident
I kicked over the iced tea
purely by accident
and along came a mole man,
or a man made of moles,
I can’t quite recollect
much these days anyway.
What with the internet and all,
there’s so much to be discussed,
or discus-ed, tossed
into the breeze
and left on a whim
without the cream filling.
So I drank
the rest of the tea
left in the cup and stood up.
I proclaimed to the world
that today is just one
of many such days,
and it’s only a matter of time
before all those days
catch up with you.
I sat back down uncomfortably
because of the pool
forming at my feet.
My left leg quivered
and I rose once again,
wetting my shoes
in what was once
an important beverage.
I laughed to the Gods,
“My word,
what an insufferable foe
this liquid has proven to be.
I must sidestep this situation
and allow for more space.”
Contemplating
Why should a couch matter
when all we need to do
is unearth the twelfth installment
of a well-read publication
from before the dawn of the internet?
Sitting is the last thing
we should be contemplating.
Even contemplating
the idea of contemplating sitting
is boring as all get-out.
The Past Landscape
A fleeting expanse of dandelions
doesn’t know it’s considered
an urban nuisance, a weed factory
in the heart of civilization.
It rolls through grass
and paints a yellow picture
of the past landscape, now foreign.
WHARVED 