Bub

“Flick of the litter”
is what I said to my marmelstreusen,
that most genuflecting
of all marmalade pastry alternatives
to the average bear’s
amount of gnarled bark.

If you had trouble following that, I wouldn’t blame you. The above content was written by a computer algorithm designed to prioritize buzzwords and randomness over all other particular variables, with a penchant for losing itself in syntactical dross from time to time (occasionally inventing words based upon various pseudolinguistic principles).

That was a lie.
I am a human, and those words
were composed organically.
Joke’s on you, bub.

Rush Hour: In Other Words

Exceed humanity’s tangible awareness
to approach levels untouchable,
invisible, invincible to conventional thought.

To miss out on a dimensional occurrence
is to watch a bus depart without you
during a Friday afternoon rush hour.

The urgency folds in on itself, embodied by
heavy breaths and huffing impatience.
The presence of your inner conscience
prevents your pot from boiling over,
but its temporal quality works only
through applied standards, varying
greatly from individual to individual.

In other words, just be content
to swallow that anger from time to time,
but be ever vigilant; too much
internal poison never does a body good.

——

Originally posted 10/31/11,
entitled #51