Dalmatian infringement, circumlocution–
tendril paradise was never meant
for us,
but for the others
[the others who backfloat
with a tendency to drift, aimless,
through the tides of amalgamated superiority
and spit themselves out afresh
on a new morn, weaving
in a pattern of non-commitment, content to
spackle neurolinguistics to
the shoehorn of
common intellect].
The alligator
prefers the ditties
over the deities,
though the allocator
would beg to differ.
Mr. “Screams ‘GEEZ!'” went rarin’ by my left window,
almost as though he’d even had a care in the world–
if it hadn’t been for that cheez whiz spritzer marmalady
gettin’ her gunk in his junk (or his gunk
in her junk, can’t quite remember).
Elemensexary, my dear Tulip the Begonia Wallace.
I’ve been awaiting your arrival for some time now,
young man. I can’t wait to get a good pasta cooking,
if you know what I mean. If you don’t,
no worries, we’ll get you set up like a Pastafarian
on Wednesday evenings, ensconced in the price of
the pledge of allegiance. You may consider this schedule
an eighth more sensational than the tap dodger aligners
who’ve risen to prominence within the last four months.
But enough of that nonsense, it’s about time for me
to devote the digestion of fandom complication atoms
to a starry-eyed wanderer named McGriff (who looks
nothing like Elliott Gould, no matter what LaVernia says).
Apple juice permeation of what would have otherwise been considered a cordial affair has shed a new light on the rather pretentious category of social gatherings as we’ve come to understand it (ever since the bungled bungalow endeavor of ought-three).
This particular fiasco began when an advocate for fresh fruit juices invited himself to the festivities, taking every possible opportunity to schmooze with the big names in booze. He slipped past security under the guise of a schnapps magnate named Sir Wilfred von Königstupp and promptly began pushing his non-fermented agenda on the room to decidedly mixed results. The drambuie set found his spiel appalling, whereas the cointreau folks were rather intrigued. Grand marnier was unavailable for comment.
Needless to say, our buddy Wilfred (whose real name will be protected for arbitrary reasons) got the old heave-ho once the Jaegers found out what was going on. His famous charisma at least allowed him to get a couple stream of consciousness quips out there, if only to confound the preppy old money set. Most notable was his impromptu list of “lost arts”, which included (among other things): stadium hopping, hamburger flipping, turkey trotting, limburger tossing, butter mashing, charity giving, the pompadour, and original origami.
I track my razors
how a bird of prey
tracks its ancestors’ nest locations:
stealthily
and otherwise full of a longing
that I can’t begin to understand
without years of intense psychotherapy.
Pastimes indicative of passion incarnate sweep themselves well past the staircase of emotional stagnation and scoop out higher understanding, as though our state of being affords us the time to crank out our pulp and surrender our wills to the greater good (otherwise known as that giant lizard occupying the innermost outhouse amongst the outer rings of the planet we currently refer to as Saturn).
We’re near the end of the road,
starvation apparent to all
(save the ones in real trouble,
the ones in rose-colored glasses
who watch sunsets
while our star of direct consequence
floats overhead);
squirrel meat won’t quite cut it for me
after tasting nutria, the rodent
that eats more roughage per square inch
than I ever thought imaginable.
I taste the green in its diet,
the grassy notes popping on my palate
with just a hint of peppercorn.
WHARVED 