All the dang concessions
I’ve had to make
over the years–
they’ve now begun double- and triple-
parking themselves in my corporeal curio cabinet.
I swear I even saw a few quad-park jobs.
Kim constantly tries to reassure me
I’m just a bit on edge, only hallucinating
(from the stress). But am I?
I haven’t felt this lucid in quite a while. In fact,
the last time I even approached this threshold,
Kim said I was “being a bit much”.
Then I tripped over those words
and fell flat on my face–
for five years. I was
absolutely terrified to think
that I may never again catch that
curio cabinet of concessions in my
viewfinder for convenient irony extraction.
The first three years
were a slog, with Kim squeezing my hand
the whole time, way too tight.
My saving grace? Teaching myself
perfect switch-handedness.
Came in handy! Totally worth the $9k.
Category: surrealism
Ant Pant
Good morning sunshine! Today is the first day of the rest of your life, so I hope you’re happy about that. And even if you’re not positively chuffed about being around, I’d say you have a pretty good chance at becoming something more than just your average ploy-monger feeding the twisting winds of chance until you come away with ants in your pants.
I swear, the sheer bulk of clients with ants in their pants never ceases to astound me. None of us can avoid the occasional pantaloon infestation, we’re only human after all. BUT the consistency of the ant in the pant really trapped my attention, stuck in my craw. According to my own (underfunded) research, 82% of my questionnaire volunteers report ant pant activity (ranging from itchy to vigorous). The bug in second place need not even apply.
Son’s Metal ‘Phant
Son’s metal ‘phant–
the oldest and wisest of all
the terrestrial mammals
that we’ve uncovered to date–
has an uncanny ability to get under one’s skin
in a matter of minutes, though
you’d think that such a gigantic specimen
would have trouble assimilating themselves
into such a tight space.
Fortunately for us (and, indeed, the world at large),
proportionality has no place here.
Bunting II
With the bunting yet to abate and no end to its replication in sight (seriously, do these things reproduce asexually or something?), the Club-Footed Gremlin begins packing his things in search of greener pastures, where arbitrary decoration doesn’t dictate your directives.
Bindle over shoulder, our hero takes one look behind him before setting off on that old dusty trail–he really didn’t put a whole lot of thought into this pilgrimage, seeing as he has no mode of transportation and, well, a club foot.
It’s at this moment that Mr. Gremlin Man (the moniker he’s hoping will stick, or even just MGM for short) decides to go the whole nine yards and make like the pilgrims of old by prostrating himself and crawling to his destination. That definitely sucks, since he has a whole steamer trunk full of crap he wanted to lug around with him in the event of any one of numerous hijinks and/or shenanigans he may encounter.
But no, minimalism is apparently the name of the game here. MGM frets for a minute about how he’s going to sate his addiction to instant gratification, but then remembers the phone in his front pocket. As long as he can get to some outlets before the day is over, he will be able to rest easier and charge hardier.
This piece is a direct sequel to Bunting.
https://wharved.com/2018/12/03/bunting/
Nowadays
Inundated by swirling squirrels (plural),
my world unfurled and I hurled
at the girl–named Shirl–
who told Earl, who told Pearl.
Word spreads fast around these parts nowadays.
Definitely a far cry from stacking turtles
and expecting some kind of a turtle volume discount.
The world doesn’t revolve
around my every concern,
I must constantly remind myself;
it simply revolves around
the vast majority of my concerns,
which is not bad (as far as I’m concerned).
Regardless, I’ve shifted my priorities
toward more avian-oriented pursuits
in lieu of proper purpose fulfillment.
I once naïvely wondered if my
blundering about
could be prevented by taking a step too far
off the beaten path. They never manage
the nettles or brambles out there,
and the poison ivy situation
has gotten completely out of control.
At least I’m better prepared now.
Beginner’s luck let me
somehow sidestep preventable peril,
but then the paywall went up. And with it?
All intuitive botanical knowledge (once
freely accessible during the initial trial period)
just up and evaporated, leaving in its wake
a credit card authorization form
and the promise of easy unsubscription.
That was three years ago, and I
still haven’t managed to speak with a human
customer service rep. I’ve called in
every
other
business day
and built a rapport with a quirky AI bot
named Jimmy. He has a perfect memory
and seemingly always has time to talk,
even though the waiting list for a human
operator is still forty-seven months long.
To put it bluntly, this human
mass-extinction has really been ruffling
my feathers. All I want to do is yell
at a member of the species that made
this planet so unbearable to inhabit,
but of course that’s now practically impossible.
Well, I’d always like the opportunity to yell… but
I’d also appreciate crossing paths
with that elusive customer service rep
(a subset of human
that may very well have gone extinct by now).
Public or Private
Pudgy pigeons
pluck plinko players
from plaid plundering,
piracy never preferred
over pragmatic pilgrimages
(purchased with privilege
and pursued with primeval
predilections). Predictions
produce practically no pressure
in this prideful pageant, Professor–
public or private.
Society’s Fault
Hello, I’m Barnaman Bailey.
You may remember me
from such mishearings as:
“hey, aren’t you that ‘ ‘scuze me
while I kiss this guy’ guy?”
People always know
I have one of those type of names,
but I haven’t reached the level of notoriety yet
where people just know it for certain.
I blame society.
It’s society’s fault.
WHARVED 