The Whole Kit ‘n’ Caboodle

When the pigeon-toed astronaut wannabes
decide that their way up the ladder
is through a series of elaborate hoaxes,
that’s when you need to jump in there
and take a penny for the thoughts
of every person on the planet–and
whomever has happened to colonize
the moon by that point. Because at least
then, you’d have dozens of millions
of dollars to play with–assuming
these pennies are American–and you
could invest in several organizations
for as long as you should want, letting
your money work for you. Investments are
generally deemed risky, so you need to be
young (75 or younger, preferably). Don’t
end up sinking your hard-earned wealth into
some ponzi scheme. I’ve done that four times
now, with varying degrees of failure. But make
no mistake, each one of those investments netted
at least a 59% rate of failure–the worst being
a pure 100% failure. Always do your research, and
for God’s sake, talk with a financial advisor (one
who is not affiliated with a ponzi scheme, mind you).

While we’re at this interstellar reception hall,
we should take the time to tell all our friends
what we’re doing this for: the peculiar sense
of freedom and wonder that takes off like a goose
through the heron-streaked gates of our overlords,
be they earthly or heavenly. It doesn’t matter
who takes the cake in this tradition, we must
stealthily enlist the help of as many indentured
mandibles as humanly possible, lest we fall into
a holding pattern of nothing in particular–save
plaid or argyle in shirts and socks. We’re all in
the habit of making friends with people who choose
not to know much about our end of the galaxy, and
it’s not much of a turn-on when you come to realize
that nobody really knows much about our end of the galaxy.

The freedom to choose whose friendship we want
is something to be admired, but it comes with a cost:
pepperoni pizza to be consumed by all parties involved
for as long as a grand occasion can be extended. If
pizza isn’t the taste of the day, a number of foods may be
substituted–pita pockets, burgers or even flan for instance.

Traipsing across the southern valley,
it’s time for a bluejay to fly by
and disrupt my peaceful mind–a mind
which has come to the conclusion
that separatists deserve a fair shake
before all is lost from their campaigns
to end global warming, child poverty
and the invasive spread of religion.

Without so much as a crow streaking by,
my thoughts begin to replicate
the telephone booth from The Birds,
encasing me right where I stand
and throwing my spirit aloft to the domain
of our tiny winged dinosaur friends,
who appear to be fighting off extinction
from all angles, invisible–save the insect
populations they’ve culled and the plants
growing from seeds they’ve passed.

Imagine as a poet
that you must
lose poetry
for the rest of your life
unconditionally,
may not read,
write
or speak it.

You would need
to rely
on body language,
as any sentence
uttered aloud
is rendered
unique
purely because
it has happened
at a time
after any other
we can recall
at the moment.

Such a task
would wear
on the soul,
then one day
you’d suddenly
start stripping
anger from a lemur
found dawdling
near headquarters
who now really wants
nothing more
than to go home,
as all the anger
has been removed,
exorcised, perhaps.

I’m not too troubled
by the humanitarian implications
present in such an occurrence.
I’m more concerned with
how all these ham sandwiches–
half with mustard, half with mayo–
got here in the first place.
Falling from a passing hot air balloon
would be the most plausible explanation,
an airborne picnic that got
too heavy to stay aloft otherwise.

Biff and Buffy Picnicmaker
would have plenty left to snack on anyway
if such a scenario were true.
There would still be enough
hard-boiled eggs, potato salad,
caviar and toast points
to last them through the sunset,
as they’re not big eaters anyway.
They had a sizable breakfast
before taking to the sky,
and the only thing they really
can’t go without would be their urn
of coffee, painstakingly brewed
the day before yet still steaming–
just the way they like it.

Persevering out there
is a scrambled mess
of tofu dog segments,
melted in extreme circumstances
and wholly unappetizing.
As people hurry around
to get out of the heat,
they unknowingly tread
on the unfortunate food.
Nobody seems to notice
this sequence of events unfold
in the clattering clambering,
but nothing can be done
to save this pile of mush
from total disintegration.
What was once a protein-packed
example of culinary hubris
has become a parade of people
spreading a fine paste
across the neighborhood–
one step at a time.

A cluster of tiny ribbons
handles itself gracefully
when asked by its eccentric owner
to dominate a meaningless conversation.
It masks any giddiness
while haranguing its close associates–
teeter totter otters, rubber party peanuts
and spackled bird houses, to name a few.
This collective of tiny ribbons
has been given the gift of gab,
an ability not commonly associated
with inanimate objects. As it riffs
about the state of the world economy,
it receives no response. What was meant
to be an exchange of language
has become a one-sided affair,
domination by default. This occasion
marks the first and last time
that this grouping will ever speak;
it slowly begins to disband,
shedding ribbons two and three
at a time until just one remains,
happy to sink back into anonymity.
The owner attempts to form a new bundle,
but playing God won’t work this time.