Malice – WHARVED

Sideshow Shrub I

One fine day
in east upper Tennessee’s Bitch Holler,
I came across a shrubbery
who deferred to me on every dang decision I made.
I mean, I assume it did.
It never actually told me so,
I just figured it had that kind of vibe.

Based on that recommendation
from my local cosmic ombudsman
regarding the malice factor (or lack thereof),
I scooped down and started
collecting this fine specimen by the roots
as tenderly as a mongrel like myself possibly could.
I more likely than not snapped a good few
tendril roots, and for that
I apologized profusely all the way home.

The burlap sack smudged dirt
all over the passenger’s seat of my
monkeyshit brown ’89 Corolla. ‘Twas then
that I surmised it could go no other way
if I wanted to get my karmic alignment
back into okay shape.

And not much time had not elapsed before
I realized the beauty of lugging around
genuine Bitch Holler dirt
in my beat-up and grimy ol’ import.

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.”