Aye]

This is a bit of a cottage industry
we’re dealing with here yet,
so I can’t be arsed
to get off my keister
and support this unproven mission statement
without some kind of connection
to the local movers and shakers.

I’ll be blunt. Pudding supplies
have run rather short, I’m afraid.
I’ve simply no use for a companywide pudding shortage–
think of the optics.

We’re sitting at a juncture
crucial to the reckoning
of our very civility as we know it.
If I’m to be contracted for my time,
I must receive the personal assurance
that the pudding supply will be bolstered
at the beginning of each working week–
or I walk.

I’m not doing this to be the unfair guy here.
I’ve seen these pudding shortages happen in the past
[oh, about four or five times, aye].

Don’t you ever find it odd
that the companies with the most influential
leaders and donors are never asking their competitors
for their gamgams’ closely-held secret recipes?
We need to get there, people.

Faux Pas

Bajillion Peregrinus started his day off right today–with a succulent cobb salad and a couple of margaritas. Slippery slope, margaritas, but as a denizen of the night, Baj has always managed to avoid that whole “too early in the day to imbibe” faux pas. However, considering the depth of his late-night cavorting, he often finds himself breaking that rule by pulling all-nighters and keeping the party rolling well past dawn.

This particular day wouldn’t normally prove to serve Baj’s personal agenda, seeing as how he needs to knock out some domestic drudgery and then immediately tuck into a full-blown work shift. Not very much time to himself at all. Just another one of those days. It’s not like he’s not used to this kind of treatment; he’s become quite accustomed to it at this point. Bills and impulsive expenditures (food delivery and designer headphones) necessitate his daily drudgery–for the most part. The remaining part of the pie chart (as far as he could figure): his intense, immense sense of self-loathing, which he quietly carries around on his shoulders like a hobo’s bindle–not too heavy, considering the unbearable lightness of being, but always noticeably uncomfortable.

As far as he sees it, he figures that the self-deception is a byproduct of his unfulfilled human potential. Well, not his own perception of failing, but the societal norm facilitating the “us vs. them” mentality that sends the vast majority of rat racers into skill corners, where they’ll proceed to bang their foreheads against brick walls for the rest of their lives, restricting whatever semblance of freedom to a 15-minute meditation session sometime between breakfast and work (otherwise known as their morning commute). The mental elasticity of previous generations is systematically eroding.

Baj is rather sensitive and internalizes most everything he comes across; most of the time he has no idea how it will surface, since the nature of the universe is that of uncertainty and chaos. In the case of human devolution, however, Baj knows for a fact that people are losing their sheen at a rapid clip.

Because of all this, Baj understands that, no matter what he does, he will always come up short in a financial sense. Just as his mother and father had, and their mothers and fathers before that, and so on and so forth. He’s recently begun to trace back his lineage on one of those newfangled ancestor websites, all the way back to a point in medieval Europe where some sort of town fool or drunk owed a debt to the local magistrate, and the interest is still accruing to this day.

Decade 1: Commence Year 10/10!

9 years are officially in the books, and year 10 has now begun!

While 9 years doesn’t constitute a full decade, it does indicate to me that I’ve been persisting at this thing for a little while now, and I should use year 10 as the renaissance year, so to speak.

In a nutshell, it’s been a wild ride through my 20s. I’m grateful that I’ve been able to chart my growth on WHARVED. Here’s a breakdown of the most relevant personal highlights!

——

Year 1 (12/20/10 – 12/19/11) — blog establishment / major quarter-life crisis / discovery of WHARVED’s power to inspire me and help me recognize the value of my expression

Year 2 (12/20/11 – 12/19/12) — completion of undergrad (with only one hiccup, due in large part to WHARVED’s stabilizing influence) / first job out of school

Year 3 (12/20/12 – 12/19/13) — first job transition and subsequent disillusionment with the system / begin restaurant industry experience

Year 4 (12/20/13 – 12/19/14) — death of family dog / leaving the nest

Year 5 (12/20/14 – 12/19/15) — complacency and unawareness lead to regrettable circumstances, true fear and remorse ingrained in psyche for first time / bipolar 1 diagnosed

Year 6 (12/20/15 – 12/19/16) — much upheaval / beginning of 108-poem numbered series / Cubs win World Series (!!!!!!!!)

Year 7 (12/20/16 – 12/19/17) — completion of 108-poem numbered series / accepting fate of who I am only after trying to get too cute about it / move out of first apartment / NEW ERA marked consciously / Straitjacket Series conceived

Year 8 (12/20/17 – 12/19/18) — Straitjacket Series terminus / financial ruination and regret / learning daily feeling of toil in earnest / new idea EXPLOSION as genuine life is easier to access

Year 9 (12/20/18 – 12/19/19) — Continuing with genuine living and explosion of ideas / transitioning to exploiting skills and affinities for financial gain, as profiting is now imperative / 10,000 views!!

EXTRAPOLATION!

Year 10 (12/20/19 – 12/19/20) — Hindsight is 20/20, BUT if trends continue, year 10 will constitute a combination of the renewed idea explosion with a bit more of an organizational acumen (due to necessity, mainly). This will also be the year in which I turn 30, an age that I’ve heard is significant. One pledge I’ll make to myself, as I find myself looking over this chronology, is to take it all one day at a time. Just try to make an effort of some kind; you don’t have to do everything in one day, and you certainly don’t want to go about trying to reinvent the wheel.
Commencing year 10 means that I have 9 full years under my belt, and I can honestly say that I’ve continued the same thread of artistic exploration for this entire duration. There are dips and dives in productivity, but I always gravitate back toward WHARVED as my anchor in choppy waters. I tend to feel that I’ve strayed away from my truest self when I don’t focus on my WHARVED output, and it’s been made obvious in my personal history that I need this particular outlet for expression.

I also hope to have my 5,000th distinct visitor to WHARVED this year, which would be quite a milestone for a minimalist poetry blog in the 21st century.

As of this very moment, I have 1,145 posts labeled “poetry” on WHARVED (drafted and/or published), for a yearly average just above 127. Not too shabby, I says to myself [I says]. I expect to have at least the same amount of output, so as to continue the marvelous trend of exploration and continuous growth.

I’m forever thankful to you, the reader, for being party to my compositional and philosophical ramblings here. I’m only going to work to make even more things for you guys to enjoy, and perhaps on a more consistent basis (how many times have I said that?)!!

So let’s all raise a glass and have a toast for WHARVED!

Cheers, people!

-Aidan

Roses

The ever-present Rumpelstiltskin type of orangeade
seems to have no connection to the ingenuity
of a person concerned with a corrupt bargain
and everything to do with a personal vendetta
to be meted out over the course of several decades,
if not millennia.

Such a skip in discourse may only lead some people
to believe of its malintent, but truly
there is nothing wrong with such a change in scale.
How else are we to judge our actions
against the actions of others in present or past?
How else are we to compare ourselves
to the species who specialize in longevity?
The trees out there, the mollusks, the fungi,
all of them. We’re just individual pinpricks
in their rearview mirrors, and it would take a miracle
for us to cause more than just a blip
on their collective radar screens.
How do you like those terrible mixed metaphors?
Yeah, it’s getting me pretty hot too, come to think of it.

Who needs any kind of inspiration anymore anyway?
It would seem as though folks
mainly just seek to consume
pleasant media at a reasonable price,
and anything falling outside of that window
must be judged much more critically,
since fewer people have sought it out.
And the ones who go out of their way to discover
such outlets must therefore–in their own minds–
be superior beings, leading to tirades
about their keen eyes and intellects
while we sit there right next to them
with a thumb up our ass, hoping only
to take that thumb and plug up their infernal nostrils.

“What is that intoxicating aroma? Roses?”

“No, genius, it’s my shit-covered finger. Why don’t you go off somewhere and have a time of it while you prank a local youth?”

“Why, you insubordinating little trolley-hopper, I’ll have you know that I earned this domineering nature through sheer pluck and grit. Also, possibly through piss and vinegar. Over the course of my years, I haven’t been able to differentiate the two, though you might say I’m a bit of a glutton for the cinema. Wait, what kind of critic am I? Shit, I forgot. A jack of all trades such as myself can only be concerned with where the next paycheck’s coming from.”

Razzle-Dazzle

Tree inhabitants incorporate pidgin into their daily doings, dramatically increasing exchange-related transaction speeds while reducing neighborly kerfuffles.

Friend–can I call you friend? Friend, I have no business prognosticating, much less evangelizing. However, I do need to get something off my chest: fleas appear to have invaded my scalp’s furniture collection. Odd how they went straight for the chifforobe, bypassing the genuine marble vanity. I was sure to have gone the rest of my life without incident, had it not been for those meddling bugs.

At this point along my personal story arc, scratching itches has become so excruciatingly routine. I’m bored to tears here! Perhaps suspending my dignity and scratching bare skin on a nearby oak will infuse my existence with a tad more razzle-dazzle. At the very least, I’ll have a fashionable anecdote for my monologue at the Antelopes gathering on Thursday.

Hm, it would appear as though the squirrels and sparrows have reneged on their linguistic compromise. Shut the hell up, will ya? I’m tryin’ to scratch my ass on this here tree! Jeez… bunch of animals.