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.
Suppose you start stammering
at these shimmering jewels
on your nightstand, as though
you’ve established some
sort of language connection
in the realm of Greater Jewelese.
You do innately understand
that jewels possess no mental capacities,
but that seems only to fuel your curiosity
as you divulge your deepest secrets
to their faceted surfaces
(eg. the state
of your psyche, regardless of stymying
ethics preventing your profits, etc.).
It beats talking to a therapist,
you tell yourself
as you realize
that a counselor would only cost
a fraction of what your precious stones
just ran you at the jeweler’s stand
(and then it dawns on you
that you never left home this morning,
and you’ve been hallucinating
those jewels all this time).
You take the opportunity to sit up in bed,
that you could at least have some kind of
to stare at
the day that you broke your bedroom window
while throwing your weight
to and fro,
resulting in a cardboard and
First draft posted to WHARVED in 2014
Gee willikers, Ebony! I sure as sugar won’t be able to make it out to that party tonight. Look–believe me–it’s not that I don’t want to. You know that! It’s just that I have so much cleaning up to do around my place. I’ve been putting it off for ages, and now my roommate’s dad is going to be in town for a few days–spur of the moment thing as usual–and he’d rather stay with us than go to a hotel because he wants to be closer to his son. I mean, I get it, they have a very strong relationship. I admire that dynamic, but of course also resent it at the present. Why do I have to be the one to pretty up our sty before he gets here? Just because I made 90% of the mess doesn’t mean I should be cleaning a full 100% of the space. How is that fair? The displaced 10% probably represents another 40 minutes of cleaning that I’m going to have to do instead of living it up with you! Trust me, I’ve tried getting around this, but there’s just no possible alternative. The next time your brother’s having a going-away shindig before shipping out to do a tour of duty in a war-torn expanse of the Middle Eastern desert, I am SO there.
I leapt atop a cereal box
it wouldn’t support my weight–
I sank into the Cap’n Chocula,
lucky to miss scraping my knees
on the crunchy saccharine goodness.
The issue of scale
then presented itself
and I burst forth
from the cardboard capsule
the plastic liner recommended
by the FDA and all those smart folks
protecting our health
and personal liberties), unscathed.
I guess I owe my roommate
a new box of cereal, though
I think I would offer more value
by illustrating to him
the sheer improbability
of spontaneous size-changing
without understanding the principles
behind such a mind-melting scrap
of anecdotal fodder.
Ultimately, the attempt to voice
my impression of the event
would see me chasing my tail,
flapping my jaw until creakiness ensues.
Nope, forget it. I’m just gonna
clean up this mess, get some more
fudgy grain poofs
and be done with it.
Bless this mess or any mess of equal or lesser value. This coupon may be redeemed at any place where futons are sold. Offer only valid in states south of Minnesota—not including Maryland—and void in any dwellings containing mole people. Individual outlets reserve the right to refuse service to beatniks, as liberties may come unhinged at any second. Consult a pediatrician to confirm the likelihood of contracting Goosebump Barrier Syndrome (GBS), a rare but likely inheritable (especially in your case) disorder caused by spirited debates with overqualified custodians during their smoke/coffee breaks. Additional information may be obtained by trekking across any number of arid climates, though traditional desert climes are highly recommended in this circumstance.
I could have made a good spokesman, eh?
All right, enough is enough. Can I use my arms now?