Belt the roast torpedo chicken espresso trepidation
between undertow scripture merriment
before tomorrow feels golf handler syndrome takers.

Upon victory garden memory quickeners
preside bacon cheerleaders,
content to scythe some grain,
unwind a bird line into chocolate cave platypuses.

Tom was a simple boy, never ventured too far away from his home because he figured home was a microcosm of the greater world, any unexplored tracts reserved for other people of existence, their place separate from his, and he was just fine with that.

Mingle amongst ribbon galoshes,
puddle champagne reed pushers beyond any barley crop–
unbeknownst to Gertrude,
widow’s fingers
trace forks and spoons
along the monument to any fallen porcupine quill,
infinitesimally uncomfortable through shadows and mean chickadees.


Originally posted to WHARVED on 1/7/12,
entitled #81 (first numbered series)



John Park-Carr and Parlor Trick Johnson met at the R&D Deli one fine Swedish afternoon for a round of aquavit and a fat-chewing session.

JPC: “What’s new with you, brother?”

PTJ: “Not much, the Magic Johnson impersonation business is still dragging, thought it would’ve picked up by now. Youth sports leagues have gotten savvier at this point–they’d rather get an actual basketball player, even if they’re not a household name, or even in the NBA at all. Turns out people aren’t in the business of taking tips from color commentators at local high school games.”

JPC: “That’s too bad, man. I hope business picks up for you soon.”

PTJ: “Yeah, I don’t think it’s going to happen. I feel fortunate that I have a little nest egg saved up for a crossroads just like this. I’m going to take some time off and figure out what I really want to do with the rest of my prime money-earning years.”

JPC: “You’ve always been a visionary, man. I look forward to hearing about what you’re cooking up. Myself, I’m just gonna keep valeting around town. The money’s decent enough, not like I have a wife and kids to feed or anything. Easy peasy. You know, I did think for a minute about starting my own valet company, being as my name is Park-Carr, for cryin’ out loud. I’m pretty sure that about half of my new client acquisition would just be answering the ol’ ‘Is John Park-Carr really your name? Seems a tad on the nose for a valet guy, no?’ I’m still on the fence about it, as you may rightly understand.”

Mile a Minute

Tainted ivory beats the scoundrel flagon,
peregrine cheaters flocking
to those most savory passes,
wafted there
upon the sea’s rippling intentions
that (as of May 14, 2013 and October 9, 2016)
match the price of a bodega avocado–
and for what?
One pound of lighter fluid (yes, measured dry).
No scale available? Substitute
a week’s worth of third grade valentine cards
(read at the rate of roughly one mile a minute).

Significance assured,
we must set our sights on the next horizon,
where our assertions flourish,
undeterred by argument and bolstered
by the chaos of existence (or
existence of chaos, whichever floats your boat).

A rainy day soiled the arid week,
flash flooding the earth’s
hard-earned cracks (as though
temperamental life’s perpetuation
were the goal here).

The Remainder: All That’s Left — Excerpt 1

Well and so I say to myself, and to myself I say,
that the greatest impediment to the thing that we call life

happens to be the calm mother rearing casualty
socked against a mitten’s worth of snake skin
for what we’d say is the majority
of our public strict seniority
or the face of the ever-stitching grin.

To the ever sticking gin,
to the floor it wants to fall
as the bottle shatters by itself
no intervener’s call
can ever save that glass from smithereens.

We enter to a saloon, drenched in bourbon, rye and spit
to overhear a conversation held out of sheer boredom.
Is it the western kind of sentiment? Well, what have these men ever known? Can you blame them for their arrogance or siphoning of time through their wide-brimmed attitude and cavalier pistol pittance?

I’d say not, and they wouldn’t even know what you’re talking about, anyway. They’d say son, why do you have to go on and do something that foolish? My associate and I were simply discussing the nature of livestock in commerce, as our mutual acquaintance had recently put us into contact for a business deal. Now why in the name of God did you have to go on and make such a dadburn fool of yourself?

It’s at this time we see the protagonist spit into the spittoon (where else) clear across the bar, traveling something like thirty feet and smacking square on. PTING.

Terrestrial Fromage

It is what it is, and we can’t change that anytime soon, so I suggest we go to the moon and sample the fine cheeses. Only the dweebs will be left on earth sampling the mediocre cow cheeses (to a lesser extent goat/sheep), and I truly feel sorry for them. They have nothing to lose now, forever stuck with terrestrial fromage.

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