WHARVED

With Me?

I spent my educational life pursuing beauty for the sake of growth and maturation.
Now I enter the professional world, which seems to have simplified into the basic pursuit of survival.
I have to ground myself and convert the skills I gained from poetic thought and colorful patterns into profitable systems for comfortable living.
I have to compromise on several (if not many) of my steadfast principles in order to compete on the standard level of business.

So be it; I enjoyed a glut of time for ruminating and thinking, and the next logical step is doing.
I’ve been launched into the dog-eat-dog society from a nurturing upbringing, and not until I find my footing in this ever-morphing, needlessly challenging social structure can I fall back on my idea-based existence.

Now it’s just a matter of doing.
2013, are you with me?

-Aidan

2013

2013 will be an odd year. It also contains every digit between 0 and 3. If you happen to be as oddly superstitious as I am, you understand where my fixation comes from. Uneven years have a way of putting me on edge, and I’m grateful to them for that. It’s time I light a fire under my ass.

Now, would I call this a New Year’s Resolution? Probably not. I’d rather call it a New Year’s Anxious Argument with Myself.

So self, here’s the gist of what I want me to do:

-write a helluva lot more poetry

-hone a short story factory in one of the lesser-used recesses of my brain

-seriously scout creative writing MA/MFA programs in Chicago

-submit submit submit

If I can carry out these tasks, my life will progress steadily and my fulfillment will rise considerably.

2012 was an even keel kind of year. Nobody was sure whether or not we’d be burning in a pit of hellfire by now, so they stuck to the program.

No more, people. Be adventurous. You hear me, self?

-Aidan

Scruples

Throw a new decision on the pile;
it smolders like burning birch bark.
For a few seconds it warms your hands,
affirming your difficult choice–then
it falters and vanishes into the breeze,
getting soot in your eye; stand upwind!

You’re quick to whip up in a frenzy,
but your eyes won’t be fixed by frustration.
Run to the nearest fresh water source,
rinse out those false hopes, dearest.

Hovering 2

A soggy beach ball wedged between cotton sheets
spreads noiseless destruction when left unattended.
It’s hiding from a magnified truth, something once folded
that now imposes a grapevine of extra-strength aspirin.
Semi-deflated and drumming with concern, slippery when wet;
always cornered, cowering from preconceived needles.

B P I Chronicles 3

B: How did we end up here?

P: Metaphorically?

B: I was thinking physically.

P: Well, I guess we need to figure out where ‘here’ is.

B: Good question. France?

P: I’m pretty sure we’re not in France.

B: Belgium?

P: I was thinking more along the lines of a state of mind.

I: We’re in uncharted territory.

Arboreal 1

Stalactites still lack tights and make Superman blush.
Suspended, drooling–more powerful than a locomotive.

Air France lost seventeen of its planes last evening.
They’ll show up eventually, they always do.

Setbacks? You lose a couple dollars, you spring back
with a chip on your shoulder. Go get the dip, dearie.

B P I Chronicles 2

B: Where’s the bartender? I need a drink. What’s that you’ve got there?

P: A caramel-infused jalapeño mojito.

B: Oh dear lord that looks awful.

P: You’d be surprised at just how awful this drink is.

B: Then stop drinking it!

P: I paid for it, genius. Plus, it’s not doing too bad a job. How are you, bud?

B: Thirsty. Bartender!

I: Hey, whadd’ya want?

B: AH! Bartender, were you crouching in front of us this whole time?

I: My name’s Frank. Yes. Now what’ll ya have? I ain’t got all day.

B: Yet you can crouch behind the bar and scare customers. I’ll have what he’s having.

I: I said I ain’t got all day. That drink takes 15 minutes to make.

P: He’s right. I was timing him. You don’t want this anyway, trust me.

B: Give me your best single malt scotch then. Leave the bottle.