Scones and Stones

No-good trubish remedy sentinels
just continue to badger me
as I TRY
to make my way to Sand Hose “A”
(what a jerkwater berg anyway, am I right?).

An impartial influence
on the growth region
of my intercontinental mental health
has got me reeling for an alternative
to cheesy misheard lyrics.
There is, however, none to be found.

It would appear, my dear mentor once told me
(over scones and stones, I wasn’t fond
of the stones but I tolerated the scones)
that black and white considerations
have torn this here nation limb from limb,
while the attemptive peacemakers
intervene at inconvenient intervals,
knocking rhetoric around
like any of it makes a difference.

I’ve batted at this idea
for far longer than I’d care to admit,
so I’m just gonna shut my mouth
before the weight of my convictions
puts a pox on my house. Or
was that a box on my mouse?
I wasn’t paying attention.

Consideration

I have come to more thoroughly understand
being a man in the context of the great
regret machinations of our time
[a sensation not unlike finishing
the stinking shawarma you left out
that one time then decided to eat
because your fatigue caused a lack of interest
in unwritten expiration date consideration],
and have chosen to fish away my days
in lakes, rivers, ponds and streams, where

you absorb
the skeletons all around you,

croon
to the bluegills
while they inspect your lure

[the sun
grinning at your little boat],

your red
ears naturally aglow.

Water
striders dot the scene,
checking for proper surface tension
(it’s like they don’t know about physics
and the evolution that specifically adapted them
to traveling in a manner that will never not be useful
in our particular iteration of the universe).