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.
to the ever-ladder-climbing individuals
who deem personal and professional progress
a product of constant social manipulation–always.
Standstills may seem intoxicating
every once in a while
to the few who always rush around everywhere,
and for good reason!
Nothing but pep in your step
and constant “progress”
makes for a dull type of existence–
no room to misstep and fall
(or even sidestep and plateau).
We’ve all become acquainted with these folks–
always on the lookout
for something that offends,
imposition rather than inspiration.
These are the dodgeworthy people,
the dilettantes at the way station
between sanity and clarity.
Untendered through dire circumstance, Felicia done bit the enlarged peregrine bug burrowing under Frenchie’s Bakery on Hydrangea Court, six exits from the McDonald’s on Nash.
Myself, I tend to bite the largess of the enraged siren-watchers (from the circuitous balcony-tenders on their vacation from daily toiling in the everglade-type peat bogs in lower Georgia (very obscure, you wouldn’t know about them)).
As it stands, very few individuals truly contemplate the serene orange-gargling once espoused by citrus connoisseurs a world over, and I have quite the time attempting to describe the passionate musings of madmen with more brains than common sense.
Tempered by the blunt end
of a stainless steak knife,
throttled by a lack of anything
interesting to say–
say, how’s that weather?
Primary’s coming up,
don’t trust any of those clowns;
the whole system’s downright screwy anyway.
Can’t get behind those corporations
parading around as individuals,
CEOs making their dirty millions.
Can’t keep up this smalltalk,
I just want to scream
at those crows hopping
over there. Who told them
they could have fun
while I’m around?
I can’t stand it
when others enjoy themselves,
especially animals. I can’t
tell them off
like I can a human, not that
I make it my business
to harass people.
The closest I’d ever get
would be a stoic monologue
about the nature of the universe
and its tendency to dissolve
without a moment’s notice.
I can make many a soul
with that shrapnel language,
if you can believe it.
Johnny Fartenrod had too many English Bulldogs to assemble a proper team of chariot racers, but that didn’t mean much in the long run anyway. A chariot racer needs a swifter breed of canine, one that contributes more panting than snorting when all is said and done.
Johnny Fartenrod wouldn’t hear of it. He never took those competitions seriously, no matter what the prize happened to be. Now, it may seem a bit unfair that an individual as zealous and spirited as good ol’ Johnny can’t compete in the thrice-annual chariot races (sponsored by clinical-strength Moon Buggies®), but sometimes you have to understand that we all have our distinct purposes in life.
What is my purpose, masters? Am I special? Is that why I’m here?
I really wish I could use my arms.