We’re near the end of the road,
starvation apparent to all
(save the ones in real trouble,
the ones in rose-colored glasses
who watch sunsets
while our star of direct consequence
squirrel meat won’t quite cut it for me
after tasting nutria, the rodent
that eats more roughage per square inch
than I ever thought imaginable.
I taste the green in its diet,
the grassy notes popping on my palate
with just a hint of peppercorn.
Ukulele tragedies beget other instances of monstrous buttress shattering, save the few modern conventions we [the contemporary sample-chompers of northwest Indodelphia] have been taking for granted lo these past several weeks.
But fret not, a squalid interpretation of the Menomenina Walk of Fame will never sully the legacy set forth by the downtrodden experts who sought the anthropological understanding previously granted by theologians–and subsequent scientists–throughout the generations, only to come up short when confronted with the fickle nature of exaggerated Middle American townsfolk, their collective backs up against their respective walls and in no position to exercise caution anymore.
A walloping armpit extension cord signals a breach of conduct between extended penguin locker scenes. Meanwhile, a trailer of sloppy prejudice leans between a cross-country ski and the entrance to a long-abandoned silver mine, incapable of bettering its situation among the shapes of molten stoicism openly exhibiting themselves through displays deployed by wriggling strings undetectable to most, save the above average marsupial intellect.
Those beings who matter most to the incorporated inhabitance cannot comprehend the visual acumen of a kangaroo or wallaby due to the shoddy basis for communication between mammalian classmates, but certain attributes must be understood for the sake of all terrestrial life.
First draft posted on 11/15/11,
originally entitled #72
Chili leaks all over the seat,
failing to save itself
for a more opportune moment.
At times I’ll see that incontinence
and laugh, comforted
by my own relative regularity.
But when the cowbell strikes 10PM
and you’re losing your marbles
at a steady rate, none of these things
matter anymore. All you can do is
gesture wildly at the skies
with the hope of retrieving
that golden beacon of self-doubt
from the prickly impersonator of human emotion.
He’s been around a long time,
a real long time (if you want to get technical).
His name is inconsequential, for
one must only conjure his essence
to perpetuate his unholy regime.