Cakemakers

Gateway drugs and experiences have no bearing on our ralphymeters today or any other day (as far as we know), though I’m going to need you to disengage in trivial pursuits for long enough get a read on just why it is that cakemakers hold no stations below law-enforcement.

The answer is easy enough to reach, you simply need to focus your attentions where they can really do some investigative good.

All right, I’ll have to just tell you then, if that’s going to be your attitude.

When you strip it all bare, the contemporary American cakemaker is commonly behooved to fabricate goods for the purpose of selling them at the market. Law-enforcers make it their business to interrupt people’s activities and impose limitations upon them, resulting in a streak of pride and occasional lawlessness. Paid to uphold the law, they often embody the viewpoint that certain laws don’t apply to them, sometimes culminating in displays of pseudo-authority that end up with dead people on their hands (or at least as a result of their handiwork).

Cakemakers just have to crack a few eggs.

Sailor Parry

In the midst of a blight
brought forth by injustice,

Sailor Parry
abandoned his bow

in favor of an idiosyncratic approach
buoyed by the near-legitimate agency
with which so many people
squabble on a near-daily basis.

Suffice it to say that he’s miserable now.
The life on the sea was a demanding one,
but nothing he couldn’t handle
(with a nice snifter of scotch
warming in his palm).

He’s not as much of a red tape connoisseur
as most folks sharing the cubicle farm,
and his frustration tends to surface
in the form of a lighthearted jibe
(sometimes misconstrued as unobstructed malice).

As the weeks and months pass,
Sailor Parry begins to doubt
the instinct that drew him
from the briny depths to the skyscrapers
of those self-professed modernographers
who derive satisfaction
from pushing the 21st Century agenda
as far as it can possibly go–and then some.

“All the world’s a sea, but some of it
parades around as a c-word.”

Like Nobody’s Business

Individual
igloo ingredients
incentivize
through interpersonal intuition;
immediate instinct.

In this instance, Ingrid’s
icy and insipid insights
immolate indignation
from Indianapolis to Inglewood,
inflicting impersonal injustices

like nobody’s business.

Short of a Dozen

Sell the time
short of a dozen eggs or so,
maybe even
short of a dozen egos
if you really want
to delve into it.

I don’t have any suppositions
to be made about our cosmic lifeblood,
conscious or otherwise,
but I wouldn’t hold it against you
if you decided to speak up
about your version of things.

All in all,
twisting the fraudulent skeleton key
into some manmade lock
can only achieve one of two results.
We hope there’s something
to be revealed behind that door,
if we can even call it a door.

Sometimes we have to heave our hefts
to and fro, as though
there were no gravity
to impede our progress
through the cattle drive
we call average workaday life,
and is there anything the matter with that?