WHARVED

Bully for Them

The very first horse-drawn carriage must have come as a shock to the ants taking their time crossing the land that at one point had never been designated specifically for human travel–and subsequent travails.

Now the unattached heel of a wayward boot has come across my plane of vision, and all of a sudden, horse-drawn carriages and ant opinions have no bearing over my perception as a red-blooded artist keen on taking over the world several well-placed poems at a time.

A long-suffering server has come to understand–a solid number of years ago, mind you–that people have no rhyme or reason when it comes to leaving their shit behind at a bar (even if they haven’t imbibed enough to lose their conception of personal property and the detriment of ignoring the objects directly surrounding them). Perhaps that very basic principle just isn’t present in their conscious minds in the same way as the long-suffering server–we’ll call him Frank.

Perhaps, just perhaps, they’ve transcended the idea of personal property entirely, to the point where everything is everything and nothing, and a backpack or purse or boot heel are inconsequential in the grand scheme of their lives. And bully for them.

Scribbles

Tiny little jubilants toss paint chips
into the rat-faced fire as their attempt
to reap the benefits of social currency.
Judging by their naiveté–they’ve only
just entered the space quite recently–
it would seem they’ve missed out on
the initial burst and are plunging into
an inescapable trough of national debt (god
bless them all, those stalling sensationalists
of the written turd). Once the uninformed masses
have been clued into a sensation, it’s only
a matter of time before the bliss splits
lengthwise and shatters the giblets
from within, a process even more frightening
than one would think at the onset.

Myself, I prefer to stick with what I do best:
painting Portuguese on piers that had once
bustled with trade activity, now disconnected
from commerce yet occupying the same space anyhow.
We wasteful invaders–of course we must leave
the bones of our prior successes to rot
in plain sight, unadorned (aside from my scribbles).

I’m No Expert

Aw, don’t get all bent out of shape,
Mr. Piece of Paper Man.
I didn’t mean to wrinkle you, honest!
Jeez, quit looking up at me
with that blank expression,
it’s killing me! Death
by a million paper cuts
is to be my fate? I shall instead
jump into an ocean of bees, so
I may avoid such a tedious
and painful end.

I love the bees,
the bees are my friends
now and forever (or at least
until one of our species goes extinct,
which could be any minute now).
They welcome me with open wings
and usher me to their queen,
bragging about the human
they just bagged–at least,
that’s what their elated buzzing
sounds like to me, but I’m no expert
in hive linguistics.

Poignant Pen: Person of Interest

The biggest, most poignant pen
writes the antithesis of the expected,
the unadmired,
the people with lives expressed
as a

religious
or
spiritual
experience, embarked upon

out of necessity
to insulate from the severe
segregation
and
disintegration
of a marginalized people

that
fucked up our entire species,
ethically and genetically.

***

Speaking truth is necessary;
we can’t worry about
transcending race or gender,
there is only
a singular consciousness,
lived at all moments of our lives.
We are merely its witnesses.

Thank you for sharing
your visions of truth
and illuminating my perception.
You are my teacher, my ally,
my person of interest.

***

Don’t we all take for granted
the stag’s leaps or the hyena’s skips
as perpetual representations of a group
that denigrates the works of mankind?

Too many toads take too much time
to throw titillated molotov cocktails
betwixt the orthogenetic felons
of our once-forgotten past,
whistled between a shar-o-ise
and a heart.

The chamber solvent
has a triumphant shield
quite unlike the present-minded
earth warbler, unmade
as a man of science and marked
as a man of knowledge
in the community that really matters–
the one that brings us
to a crater of conscience
that may easily be sustained
if pursued in earnest.

Spätburgunder

Speckled timberjacks innovate in the leanest and meanest of times, over all the whinging and cringing, crybabies taking turns beating their chests as though abalone were as valuable as diamonds (although, in our faery-less global community, that sentiment should be closer to truth than it currently stands).

Sentiment breaks backs as a matter of fact. You could say that the finer the rampage, the cheaper the glint recommended by the turnstile technician–at least that’s what I’ve come to understand as a giblethead in society’s white pages.

Although, the sorrow contained within a single spätburgunder can hardly be measured with a doughnut and Jeopardy rerun (even a Ken Jennings episode where he wins $75K, sorry to say).

Stu

Stu has an irreverent tone to him today. Was it the pineapple liqueur we plied him with before the road trip to Tijuana? I guess it could have started there, but the tequila probably sealed the deal. Whatever the cause, this man certainly doesn’t know the meaning of off-switch. He’s off, don’t get me wrong there. I suppose the main discrepancy lies in his knowledge of what it means to be “on.” He has his own notions, which all point toward an absence of critical thought and an inherent acceptance of the status quo, which definitely do not endear him to the youths of today. And after all, who pulls the strings around here? There are two answers:

The financial benefactor who supplies the dollars and necessitates prudence through their old-world viewpoint that relies on fear-based tactics

and

The youthful tastemaker who takes it upon him/herself to challenge whatever position may have formed over the past quarter-century and invent a hybrid form of expression that (over the subsequent quarter-century) pervades all social conventions and leads to the same cycle of adherence as with what had been previously-established–ironic, yes? This process will be repeated ad infinitum until either (A) the species evolves and outgrows such petty matters, or (B) we all die horrific, gruesome deaths at our own hands.

No matter what transpires, it’s important to remember that, to our tragic figure Stu, everything is relative, and there’s no point in making any more friends if it’ll just lead to pointless poisonings.

Well (II)

Do you whistle into wells?
Do you whistle well into wells?
Are you a well whistler
whistling well into wells?

Well, whistle well, my
well-whistling wunderkind.

Why? well, ask no more.
Wealth wills walls to wake
wavy Willis wisdom, now
more readily-available
to the masses
than ever before.

Whether the world
would be willing to wait
for a worthwhile patch
to the genuine system
is still yet to be seen.
WALDO! Get my wafer-thin
wallet, it’s time to wail!

Womp womp, simulation’s over.
Get your irons out of the fire,
boys! Time to reiterate,
we have no woolly mammoths.
I repeat, we have NO
WOOLLY MAMMOTHS.