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.
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: 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.
B: I told you not to let him go. Didn’t I tell you not to let him go? I definitely told you not to let him go.
P: What’re you groaning about this time?
B: The ice cream man! You heard me say I had to run into the house to grab my wallet. I said ‘don’t let him go after you get your popsicle.’
P: Oh, but I got a sundae. I thought your command was conditional.
B: You gave me the distinct impression that you wanted a frozen water treat, so I said popsicle. This was clearly all my fault.
P: Finally you see the light.
I: I’m still here, guys.
P: Ah! Oh, you scared me half to death, ice cream man!
I: My name is Frank.
B: What an odd name for an ice cream man.
I: Do you want a popsicle or not?
B: Really going for the jugular, Frank. No, I want a sundae.
I: I don’t do sundaes.
B: Then what’s that?
P: Oh right, he calls them mondaes.
B: Jesus, Frank. Give me a mondae then.
I: I hate mondaes.
P: You’ve still got it, Frank. Now get out of here before I call the cops.
B: Can I have my ice cream?
Silent gopher modules grind a bearable decision,
tornado grumbling affidavits bristling on a desk.
Forever where the wit of windows concentrates adroitly,
a cavern stumbles through a platform’s pumpernickel chest.
Similar to a plate of corn-fed double bacon burgers
thrown against the wall to land upon a bed of watercress.
Passion is a dagger in the heart of a cynic.
Toward a greater identity, you say.
Ha, lifeless drones can’t comprehend the magnitude of a spiritual upbringing.
Humanity quells all fears, yet politics throw absolutes into squalor.
Fuck them. Speculation falls into tar pits and degrades into history.
Launch thought through unbridled optimism and see where it gets you.
A hell of a lot further than your reactionary bigotry.
Benefit those who tell you that a living consists of undeterred servitude, because you see into the reasoning that drives their rationale; when you take your opportunities to advance the ever-loving system that they claim to have perpetuated, you undertake the responsibility of pulling the burden of human perpetuity to the necessary climax. You throw it over your shoulder and smirk as they review your handiwork. The lack of understanding is perturbing, but your passion propels you to the next thing as the preconceived rulers dwell upon the variables that accommodated the last revolution’s momentary success.
WHARVED 