Jim Olivo left a note behind for me
many summer camps ago–pinned
to a pine–that reads:
“If you want the recipe for that turkey sandwich from mess hall, you’ll have to pry it from the clutches of none other than Neander The Articulate. Born with almost-exclusively neanderthal blood, his scrawniness prevented him from competing with his peers on a physical level, leaving him alone with his thoughts on a regular basis. Over the years, this ostracized fella developed a peculiarly sharp wit, mainly due to his constant observation of the individuals he would have considered his peers (if they would ever let him). Little by little he started sneaking tiny esoteric quips in edgewise–mainly in passing–that befuddled the muscly alphas and intrigued the blossoming females.”
It goes on like that
for a couple more pages.
I think Jim was working out
some kind of material on me,
because I couldn’t ever find
a turkey sandwich recipe
or a local neanderthal
for the life of me.
Maybe he was talking about
the camp across the lake.
Mannequin rest is a sign of weakness
and cheap plastic.
My stock at the Sears downtown
believes that since they look human,
they should receive pay and benefits
like my flesh and blood employees.
I’m so tired of emphasizing
to these hollow Betties and Bernies
that they were designed, built and purchased
for the sole purpose of displaying garments.
I’m not the one to blame
for their poor quality of life.
Even if their plight was real
or at all justifiable,
how am I supposed to provide
services for company property?
I’m just a shift manager!
I’ve tided them over for now
by letting them form an in-store mannequin union
in the basement (Thursday and Saturday nights
from 7 to 9), but until they’re legitimate,
I’m not breathing a word of this to the higher-ups.
Originally published as part of inaugural post (12/20/2010)
First titled “Swivel Rights”
Albacore dreams float soundless,
drop to sediment, petrify
and wash up:
broken empty shells
inflicting wounds at will.
All the lost blood
on the beach,
the sand gulps it and dives
Burrowed in muck,
all the ‘O’s and ‘AB’s
reaffirm their common lineages,
summoning up a plume of sanguinary vitality
(luring jerky lurker sharks
near the shore to nip some ‘A+’
from a lazing boogie boarder–
that type’s always running low
for some reason).
Original draft posted to WHARVED on 3/2/12,
Slammin’ the fit-o-deena–ground lengthwise across a bawdy expanse of thneeds
(which everybody needs)–we took our serenades elsewhere, confident in our knowledge of the occult (i.e. the back-stabbery and latent overall treachery that sorts itself out over the course of dozens of generations) and its ability to stall disbelief as one would when faced with a Mel Brooks-esque (or, to a lesser extent, Mel Blanc-ish) dilemma involving the safety of an entire town, where the hapless protagonist even agonizes over the insignificant-yet-unique blood splotch patterns on each and every last hitching post (with the hopes of creating a permanent photographical installment at the Getty and cementing his status as one of the pioneers of pre-modernized main street massacre legacy documentation that would span the seldom-understood and often-demonized “Wild West” (that is, if he has anything to say about it)).
Well, not much more to talk about, unless you want to discuss what’s going down in Tampa this weekend. Bakers from seventeen counties in the south, not just Florida, have new recipes to showcase for the conference covering innovations in baking science. The theme of this particular conference is the trinity of blood, sweat and tears. Most people operate under the assumption that sweat and tears are the same solution, but they are gravely mistaken. Not all three components must be used in a recipe, though the variety of all three can make for a scrumptious bake. Those who claim to use all three ingredients will be judged by a panel of the most experienced tasters in the biz, four of whom are able to taste the mucus content in tears that separates them from simple sweat. A culinary delight is a nice achievement, but it’s all for naught if it’s not truthfully conceived.
Veins configure, snaking,
coursing under skin, hot
and full of blue blood,
converging on Route 66
headed for the heartland,
where the earth pulses
and breathes red creation,
supervising the bellows,
thumping life forward,
a fixture of any good body.