The Whole Kit ‘n’ Caboodle

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.

Handier than a set of dull steak knives
and more buoyant than the Duke of Edinburgh,
this here dog in a box is a celebration
of festive times past. Since the dawn
of our current set of circumstances,
nothing has refreshed one’s sense of dignity
more than the knowledge of a particular
string of extraterrestrial occurrences
up over by Lake Uponamawoc–if they’re
to be believed. The results of these
alien encounters are apparent: dogs-in-boxes
are popping up all across the tri-county area,
the calling cards of our benevolent overlords
from the other end of the galaxy. Nobody
knows when this started, but spiritual channelers
have often said this practice predates
the bronze age by a good margin. Our species
may have first learned of both dogs and boxes
through this bizarre ritual, utterly changing
our impressions of storage and animal friendship.

Bustling wind whistles briskly through trees, tall grasses and urban corridors more often than any other location on Earth, at least for the time being. Tomorrow may tell a different story, bringing gusts to sand dunes and mountain summits, but the objective is always the same no matter where the brunt of nature’s force takes place: gather together enough energy to knock a 200-pound man off his feet with ease and judge his reaction as impartially as possible. Usually the man will exaggerate how much of an impact the wind made, even if there’s nobody around. He’ll throw up his arms nine times out of ten and yell, “Wowee, sure as hell caught me by surprise!” Again, this transpires more often than not even if nobody else is within earshot; the typical male human is steeped in macho tradition, concerned more with saving face than ensuring immediate bodily safety.

Hitherto underrepresented is the full range of emotion you’d associate with a mood ring. You’ve only ever managed to have your ring turn blue–from cornflower to navy–though most folks you know swear they’ve turned theirs putrid green in a fit of rage. Maybe their rings never went in the laundry by accident. All right, no need to lose your temper. Each passing moment now brings you closer to hurling this piece of knock-off jewelry from a fourth-story balcony. The thought of throwing the ring away produces no new emotional hues while it’s still on your finger, though the turmoil in your head should surely at least cause a minor change. What a waste of six dollars; if only you’d remembered that truck stops never sell anything actually worth the money it costs.

Flooding the basement with turkey gravy is just the beginning, though it took 26 hours to prepare all that gravy and I haven’t gotten any sleep since starting the process. The gravy needs to at least come up to your shins, or it can’t be called a legitimate flood. I’ve decided against trying to float on my back in the stuff, I don’t need my whole body drenched with a substance that brings to mind those old elementary school turkey lunches at the beginning of the week of Thanksgiving, with potatoes and canned green beans, maybe a piece of droopy pumpkin pie. Once the taste for flooding has been satisfied, digging a hole to China in the backyard is a logical next step. All the cartoons from my youth assured me that it’s possible, and I won’t rest until I burrow through the core of the planet–though more than likely I’ll run out of energy and pass out after I’ve dug about 20 feet down.