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.

Waking Lives

Informally wedged between a significant mile of alterations and a limitless power of inventory tallying, my golf ball’s normally-understated carryover floundered briefly–the northern lights had obscured my vision, rendering my lie-finding skills ineffectual on this particular fairway (perhaps I shouldn’t have made a habit of getting in a tight nine after midnight, but free golf is free golf).

At least I got the chance to gawp at the Canada geese flapping over the course, wings beating black against the nuclear waste green, a cacophony outmatched only by their aggressive calls to each other, expressing–what I intuitively deemed to be–awe at the display they rarely see. Though you know, travelers of their caliber get many more opportunities than your typical vertebrates, having inhabited the skies every year of their waking lives.

——

First draft posted on 9/26/11,
originally entitled #20