Category: Poetry

My time has been taken up by too many random memories drifting past like an onion ring through a garbage disposal in the chancellor’s maid’s footservant’s second kitchen sink. Though the circumstances may unfortunately account for wind resistance, there can be no mistake: our glorified patterns for unconventional squeegee methods can only remain in vogue for a time long enough to shout blasphemy from all rooftops (aside from that meddling Johnson family’s).

It would seem as though all of everything may be seen by a significant portion of the population for any number of seasons and reasons. I can’t quite explain why, though I can hem and haw for a while until you start ignoring me. I can filibuster with the best of them when I absolutely must, so don’t make me resort to such drastic measures.

Oh no, I can see your eyes begin the glazing process! I was going to go easy on you, but you clearly deserve a harangue for the ages.

Or you can get up and leave. Yes, I suppose that’s your prerogative. Well, have a nice day.

The spacious is wasted on the species built for Spanish Inquisitions.

The fakest thing I ever saw was a walnut tree built for seventeen hard-pressed warriors on their way to a chili cook-off in Prague. Disguised to uproot and follow the horde on plastic root-looking legs, it swayed unconvincingly whilst doing so.

Underwhelmed by the chocolate cookie cutter worship, I changed my trajectory to watch the stage coach’s clip across the land our fathers’ fathers’ fathers found with our mothers’ mothers’ mothers. There’s quite the history of in-breeding in this family tree, you see.

Failing to recognize my own brilliance, I tossed every one of my ideas in the dumpster behind my apartment building. Ten minutes later, while stewing in my own existential dross, I realized that ideas don’t necessarily mean anything until they reach the right people. I jotted a note for passers-by: “Free ideas for world peace, a balanced budget, and overall better living” in large print, taped it to the front of the dumpster and found the most comfortable spot I could for watching the processional.

Through the grace of your face, I slobber all day without relief; I find that my buckets have all filled with saliva at a hearty pace, and if I’m to continue my vigil, I must enlist the assistance of a local youth who may, if I provide enough funding to guarantee a profit for this young scalawag, run down to the local bucket emporium and select two durable five-gallon polypropylene pieces.