questions – WHARVED

AUDIO Quick (Tasty) Morsels 1: None of a Your Beeswax, Sonny

Here’s the first of a series of revisited poems that are read without commentary, very minimally. I found difficulty with the podcast format, confining myself to just the extended recording. But then I realized that people enjoy variety, and I enjoy working on a variety of styles on a regular basis, never restricting myself to a single project or ideal. Sometimes that kind of behavior can be shackling–it can lead to treading water in numerous areas instead of swimming in a handful.

Eh, live and learn.

So that’s what brings us to today! Quick (Tasty) Morsels is designed for your jet-setting citizen of the 21st Century, snack-sized recordings that are sure to raise just as many questions as they answer.

Cheers and enjoy!

None of a Your Beeswax, Sonny

A Winston box
ain’t none of a your beeswax, sonny,
we’re full up here.
Scram, you dig?

I mean, turpentine torpedo stitching
needn’t apply for a permit
before March 1st, or when
the next available March Hare
comes in for an appointment.

LXXXV

Heavenly bodies tend to move past one another on the road to stardom, or so they tell me. When I was a little boy, I saw a couple of heavenly bodies floating across the sky at a measured pace, nothing like the rudimentary flying machines our kind concocted as a way to skip over oceans and meet deadlines. These fiery points in the sky were playing with each other, bouncing around, up and down. Then they vanished, as though they knew I was enjoying their little game too much. Ever since then, I’ve been looking up to the skies for answers to the usual questions. “Why did the mayonnaise go bad before the expiration date?” “How are we going to figure out cold fusion, and does such a technology even make sense?” “Where did my dog go after he died?” Every time I look up there, I wonder if what I saw was just a figment of my imagination. I mean, I used to think there were miniature deer running around in my room at night during the Winter, scraping at the carpet and foraging for precious roots.

Monument to Salad

A cold little crouton prefers to be somewhat frozen over being baked into a melange of messes, and I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve had to dignify these oddball questions with suitable responses. I mean, half of my time has been spent trying to describe a heron’s flight patterns to preschoolers, and I can see that they’re really not getting it at all. No matter what color the heron or the wingspan, there is no way I can have an intelligent conversation with these ungrown little future senators and hot dog vendors. I might as well try to make friends with people my age and just be done with it already. I never thought building a giant monument to salad would be so damn tough.