The Whole Kit ‘n’ Caboodle

A scattering scurry has uplifted the scoundrels responsible for the fireworks bonanza last Tuesday at quarter past nine. They’ve enlisted the help of none other than the wise old guardian of the lakes, that shifty yet stable man who would have no other way of expressing himself than a good old fashioned poetic rant–composed of spontaneous iambic pentameter, no less. Together, armed to the teeth with rhetoric and several air-tight alibis, they march to the courtroom and demand that justice be served–preferably on a platter of some kind.

Dozens of daffodils are just sitting there,
like they expect me to pick up
their dry cleaning or pay their rent
(those ungrateful flowers). I’m walking
through this community garden under protest;
I can’t stand all these lackadaisical
plants screwing up their lives just because
they’re too lazy to better their situations.
They use their roots as an excuse
to not be active, like they would die
of shock if they had to move.
In spite of this uncouth behavior, the garden
continues to solicit and receive donations!
All these flowers are allowed to continue
freeloading off the dollars of hardworking
individuals with more generosity than common sense.

Trading cards don’t have the same mystique
as they used to have (once upon a time
at the level of a carp cheek
after it’s been roasted to perfection
or an espresso machine making three drinks
at a time). On the contrary, their value
has plummeted in terms of social interaction,
and they spend the majority of their time
sitting on shelves and waiting in vain
to collect dust in a way similar to how
they were collected, in a gradual accumulation
with no discernible beginning or end
(sort of the way a good childhood should be conducted,
beginning before the idea of conception,
among the forms and knowing just as much
as the entirety of the cosmos, but only
needing to recall part of it when choosing
which environment is most suitable
for the ensuing life that has a 0.47% chance
of naturally occurring anyway).

I manipulate what I want.
I’ll grab a coconut if I can
(if I’m allowed to, at least)
and sling it across the garden
as a sign of respect.
Respect for what, I sure as hell don’t know.
Maybe I want to express admiration
for the basic physics that rule
our world. Or I just want to see
how the damn coconut bounces
when it hits the soil. Do I have to
make these decisions to justify my actions?
I’d say I’m defensive because
I shouldn’t have to explain
why each piddly little coconut
gets flung this way or that.

Superimposed triumph, superlatives abound!
Just super- all around.
Nothing says accomplishment
like super- affixed to
decidedly average words
(or even nonwords in need of saving)
that would otherwise
have spent their time looking around
from collective tire swings,
pining for the days of wine and roses,
occasionally yelling at rascally raccoons
using their hands to get into
hijinks of the highest order.

Bombastic rhythm
leads to cool ivory tinkling,
always beating on the two and four–
the lub-dup that keeps us all honest–
binding us to the time
we only think we created
until we hear the birds and crickets again.
They’re the original jazz musicians
who gave us the meters
we eventually wrote down as gospel.

Bootlegging lost all its appeal
once they started to make
genuine Rubber Duckies again.
Sure, there’ll continue to be
a market for the knockoffs
and demand won’t be any lower,
but my heart just isn’t in it anymore.
I was a rabid proponent for access
to high-quality imitation ducks
once we learned the connection
between enjoyable baths and longer lifespans.
I made it my life’s mission to provide
nostalgic bathtime to as many individuals
as possible, especially those on a budget.
I never could quite replicate
the color and squeak of the original,
so I knew that once the prohibition ended
I’d feel like a fool if I continued
pushing my makeshift Latex Duckers.