Ducksnort

Why do we always gravitate toward senseless tragedy when we should already know how that train wreck’s going to play out? Seems like quite the schematic for failure, and I want no part in it unless you’re wrapping something in bacon on my behalf.
You’ve known my price for some time, okay? Don’t act so surprised.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah!
So Captain Chilango gave me his cure-all recipe once he’d heard my ducksnort of a chili cook-off success story. He looked me right in the eye and said
“kid, you’ve got potential, but you need to set your sights a little higher than some two-bit cook-off in a two horse town. Go see a movie or two–you’ll get to see the world through a different lens, and maybe learn a thing or two while you’re at it.”
Well, he was certainly right about that. I went and saw my first moving picture, and haven’t looked back ever since. Now I get all my valuable worldly information from the silver screen, to which my wife can attest.

Dips and Dives

Exaggerating one’s influence should be among those acts reserved for the dolomite entrepreneurs out there with more margarine than non-dairy coffee creamer at their regular disposal.

If we allow these blowhards to navigate the kitchen table’s width and fail to uncover the tangential ne’er-do-wells we’ve been warned about, then what was it all for?

All we can say is that protesting such an alteration of manifest destiny (density?) comes with the price of freedom (and a bag of chips in some circumstances), and nothing short of Ozzy the Philistine could resurrect the embattled intentions of those labor organizers mainly concerned with seizing the means of production.

We must remain ever-vigilant, for you never know when pediatric charlie horse tendencies will rear their ugly heads in the recesses of adolescent America. We (the Americanses) once sat atop the global jungle gym, our ingenuity and general cuteness inspiring power-seekers a world around to blush with envy at the amenities they could only imagine (until that coal train came a rolling down the bend with the promise of sooty modernity), filling their heads with unrequited lust for widgets and modules and bells and whistles that could fill their modest spaces—digital and otherwise.

And, of course, once even a modicum of that prosperity had begun evening the materialistic score, we flat out lost our lease on the planet. As our Gaia gathers the foreclosure paperwork, we scramble like the varmints we really are, pushing and shoving, blaming all but ourselves and projecting our greed onto unrealistic scapegoats for just long enough to lose any chance of saving what had once been humanity’s little slice of paradise that, against all odds, had once been a serviceable milieu.

Ah well, the sloughing-off period is just gonna have to start a little early this time around, with a tad more english on the dips and dives.

Parlance

It’s my unrelenting plan
to escape to the future
at any time now, to a time
where the ones greeting me
want only to offer the knowledge
and dynamics of their era.

We’re all quite familiar with that little bit of
science fiction by now–the storied
advanced civilization that doesn’t so much mind
a past-person stumbling upon their developments.

Ya see, these folks would require
astute pupils for their lessons
in temporal psychology, so
if an intuitive person
were to find themselves ensconced
in such an environment,
these lovely future guardians
would instinctively root out
the nature of said snoop’s intentions–
not to mention their accent
or parlance of the time
they oh so unwittingly represent.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Drawing composed August, 2019–
rollerball pen and dry erase marker on printer paper

Stubborn One

Petrification process, present yourself!

Not yet, eh? Why not?
Not talking, eh? Stubborn one, aren’t we?

Well, if you won’t talk, then I’ll just have to be the one to break the ice.

Once upon a time, a fly buzzed around from place to place. Its favorite place to land was upon the top spike of a stegosaurus’ back. Didn’t matter which particular specimen, as long as the spike was at the highest point of the animal.

It may seem odd that I’m mentioning a fly’s perching preference, but by the time I’m done explaining why, you will have–at the very least–a beginner’s understanding as to how futile our existence proves to be over the course of time.

I have now finished my explanation, in case you weren’t aware.

Impressionology

Facile fabrication comes with half-price wine and a half-decent idea of what it means to be a cut-rate pilgrim on the eve of the seventh tardigrade.

So now, Jimber Unfletching Libberdijibbet (that’s his stage name) has a bone to pick with the absurd nature of his very existence on this here rock orbiting a mid-grade star of no particular distinction. For one: how could his sorry-ass soul have been picked to inhabit a corporeal manifestation of this godforsaken planet? His mind simply wasn’t malleable enough to adapt to such mental calisthenics, even if said activities only constituted a sixteenth of one morning each second Thursday after waterobics.

He needed a tutor of sorts to escort him down the row of unconcerned minds, so he could become one of those most-enviable kinds of folks who look so cool that their general demeanor forces them to do everything but justify the wherewithal that led the to cultivate such a persona in the first place.

But, after all, we happen to inhabit an age of severe impressionology. I can see I may have lost you on that last one. It’s essentially a myriad of minuscule multiplicities as seen through the eyes of numerous (some would say innumerable) individuals, wherein people tend to default toward the middle of the pack so as to avoid embarrassing themselves in front of those in the know.

I know.

Hands and Knees

Owning up to the egregious malfunctions
held as the standard in social technology,
we must become better initiators of cosmic (or
at least karmic) change for the sake of our
tequila-rearing counterparts.

This bleak mindset–perpetuated to depress
the more sensitive-types and appease the oligarchs
for some preordained time–was perhaps
meant more for the unfolding
stalling of unified civility, or
just as some kind of morose cash grab.

The only ones who definitively know
where this particular roller coaster is headed
will also be the ones in the frying pan–come judgment day.
The justice system may not be done after all;
the ones who had hijacked office may snap
back to their senses before all is lost.

Endorphin meltdowns scream incontinence!
Mind you, this doesn’t mean we need to
get on our hands and knees and scrape the shit
from incompetent postal workers’ satchels.
We simply need to make a stand
for what’s good and proper in this,
our world of *TODAY ONLY* $19.99 deals.
Got to move that product, for Christ’s sake!

Lucky Duck

Cheatersley Everington has never had much reason to spout drivel from the tip of his dorsal fin, mainly because he never inherited one of those peculiar things from his most recent mammalian ancestry. Perhaps a few hundred million years ago he would have still had a bit of a vestige from where he needed to propel himself through the water in a somewhat graceful way, but these days it would be silly to expect such an outdated mode of transport to have any trace elements remaining. But with all that aside, Cheatersley never made much of a fuss about the dorsal shortage. He would be the first one to tell you that such science fiction elements hold no significance in his day-to-day existence. In fact, he exists during a time in the “modern” human epoch when science fiction is not a term that people bandy about. He has been afforded a blissful existence of technological and historical ignorance simply because he happened to strap on his feed bag in what we commonly call the 19th Century. Lucky duck, basking in a world of intellectual stagnation and limited upward mobility (well, until he dies of dysentery, at least).