Category: Poetry

The Remainder: All That’s Left — Excerpt 2

Hold back for your own benefit,
or collapse with anxiety.
It’s your choice.

I’ll take the skillet with monterey jack cheese
melted on the mushrooms,
taken for granted by Mr. Poached Eggs over there.
Who puts poached eggs in a skillet anyway?
Where are we, Paris? Where’s his personal chef,
and what’s his extension? I could use a snack.

There are few things in this world that would stop me from devouring a meal at midday. I don’t normally have a large breakfast, never has been my style. I sacrifice spontaneity through the morning hours for a massive course of gorging through sandwiches, potato chips and beer.

Now a poached egg,
on the other hand,
just makes me think that Napoleon had an appetite for something delicate, and mandated that all the cooks from across the land prepare such a breakfast treat for him if he were to stop by on his way through town.

POACHED IN BUTTER. CHOPPED SCALLIONS ON TOP. SPRINKLE THE SALT WITH THE PEPPER. THERE, IT’S DONE. LEAVE ME TO MY MEAL.

Dictating a meal is much easier than making it, which leaves the evolution of the human race to the carnival barkers and auctioneers out there, those heroic individuals destined to push things around with the power of their words, at times completely overpowering the lives of all around them. Do they mind? Of course they’ve given it some thought. But by damn, are you gonna earn a livin’ or aren’t ya?

The Remainder: All That’s Left — Excerpt 1

Well and so I say to myself, and to myself I say,
that the greatest impediment to the thing that we call life

happens to be the calm mother rearing casualty
socked against a mitten’s worth of snake skin
for what we’d say is the majority
of our public strict seniority
or the face of the ever-stitching grin.

To the ever sticking gin,
to the floor it wants to fall
as the bottle shatters by itself
no intervener’s call
can ever save that glass from smithereens.

We enter to a saloon, drenched in bourbon, rye and spit
to overhear a conversation held out of sheer boredom.
Is it the western kind of sentiment? Well, what have these men ever known? Can you blame them for their arrogance or siphoning of time through their wide-brimmed attitude and cavalier pistol pittance?

I’d say not, and they wouldn’t even know what you’re talking about, anyway. They’d say son, why do you have to go on and do something that foolish? My associate and I were simply discussing the nature of livestock in commerce, as our mutual acquaintance had recently put us into contact for a business deal. Now why in the name of God did you have to go on and make such a dadburn fool of yourself?

It’s at this time we see the protagonist spit into the spittoon (where else) clear across the bar, traveling something like thirty feet and smacking square on. PTING.

Terrestrial Fromage

It is what it is, and we can’t change that anytime soon, so I suggest we go to the moon and sample the fine cheeses. Only the dweebs will be left on earth sampling the mediocre cow cheeses (to a lesser extent goat/sheep), and I truly feel sorry for them. They have nothing to lose now, forever stuck with terrestrial fromage.

Courage in Spending

Give us that speed of transaction courtesy, will ya? We’re valuable customers, and we deserve instant purchases (not to mention fund transfers). Our stable contributions to the economy have earned us the right to complain and demand homage for our courage in spending.

Nothings Can Suffice

How can we adjust to the modern expectation of the artist? Is there any way to salvage such a tired and excruciating stereotype, antiquated to within an inch of its life for the merriment of those who know nothing about it in the first place. Now art, forever that damsel in distress, is searching and wailing for a scrap of something we once used to call dignity.

Unobstructed viewings, all day: ten for a dollar. All you can view, punctured with a fork and strewn across the room for nothing but your pure enjoyment. We must all endure lean times, and I for one can attest to the horror that we call the vermilion trouser foible bazaar–

Lame little nothings can suffice,
but you know the greater ones
always stick to the back seat anyway.

Mad Old, Yo

Scenario: An alien lands on the surface of the planet, trying to investigate the nature of Human behavior for a book he’s writing. This is a book meant for scientific endeavor, and he also hopes it reaches the point where his fellow beings appreciate his efforts enough to award him with some sort of accolade. This is a big deal to him, and his species is on board with him. You may want to compare this to the Christopher Columbus scenario, except that our hero is benevolent. This species of hominid has evolved to the point where telepathic communication has been perfected to an indefinite amount. These beings are mad old, yo. Something like fifteen million years ago is when they first figured out the whole telepathic bit, which fell fifteen million years after that time they figured out what fire was good for.

Of course, this is to be read only if you want some perspective on their development. I’m only doing this for your benefit.

What? You asked me to take on this project. Do you think I would volunteer my time to this for no reason? You must be crazy.