The Whole Kit ‘n’ Caboodle

There is really nothing quite as fearsome
as a sentient sock monkey staring you down
from a gruesome sixth-story parapet,
replete with several survival satchels–
the majority of which being loaded
with nearly-expired mayonnaise–
causing nearby neighbors to shout,
“Don’t you dare open those bags,
they’ll be a goddamn biological weapon!
Christ!” Unfortunately, the sock monkey
doesn’t understand a scrap of English–
or any spoken language, for that matter.

Beanings stoke all-around deciduous reactions,
shaking and flaking into the Autumn
as though nothing but leaves are important
once the fall classic has come to a close.
Veins through chlorophyll, now earthen–
trodden over and united with soil–fade
and shrink into worms’ mouths and scream
a muted shriek until completely inaudible.

As I hold the 4×4″ carpet sample to the floor, I try my best to visualize an entire expanse of it as the power of my imagination is challenged by the habitual tapping of fingernails on a wooden armrest just a few feet from the back of my head. I’ve learned to stop asking about why the tapping occurs, because I get a different story every time. I’ve tried–as gently as I could–encouraging the cessation of the activity, but nothing has gotten through.

“Sorry about the tapping, hon. I just can’t wait to see the lottery drawing, and it’s six–now seven–minutes behind schedule. I think I got a winner this time, I can feel it.”

Okay, at least I got an apology this time.

The lake, once robust and visited often, drained quickly last week in a giant whirlpool that ripped through the homes of countless fish and waterbound creatures, taking most of them for the ride down. Current science cannot explain where the water went, as there’s no hole to be found in the bed of dry sediment. This predicament is likely to be hidden from the public, so as not to frighten them about phenomena linked to a different and more-accomplished species that regularly travels to our neck of the woods in order to observe this planet and impact it with unexplainable events that shake the very foundation of what we know to be true in this universe. Sneaky bastards.

Dump what’s expected of you
into a pile of rotting wood–
covered with mold and crawling
with bugs–and toss it into the fire
when its turn comes around.
It’ll get smoky and irritate you
if you stand too close (pondering
the necessity of holding other people’s
esteems above your own), so keep
your distance as you witness
the incineration of those external
elements, remembering that you must
continue to tend the fire and repeat
the process throughout the night.

A savvy coffee shop owner must make
said business inhospitable to those
patrons who have chosen to frequent
the establishment with low batteries.
Only those prepared with sufficiently-charged
gadgets may enjoy a prolonged stay without
feeling like a shunner of technology or,
heaven forbid, a kind of beatnik poet
who only writes by hand–to soak up
the nuances of each distinct syllable
(all the while gazing at dozens of
different focal points and giving off
the impression of a tortured mind).
Why, if you write on paper, you simply
must live with what’s been inscribed;
the paper will be saturated forever
with jottings and musings and skeletal
structures of harmonious ideas (unless
you write in pencil and have a penchant
for erasing anything that doesn’t agree
with your sensitive temperament, which
will certainly not endear you to
the grouping of café guests who
compose emails while taking in the hum
of new wave music and general human presence).

Make it your duty to ensure
that a chutney wrangler
really works for his living.
When seeking fine wild chutneys,
request one of every variety
in his catalogue, even if
some aren’t in stock
and you don’t have a use
for most of them anyway.
Keep the workingman on his toes
so his trade will feel–to him–
more lucrative and challenging.
He must understand that his craft
is needed in this world
of increasing fragmentation
and unnecessary noise that piles up
for the sake of taking up space.