I’m gonna let this here sandwich–tuna
and potato on marble rye–cool
on the windowsill for a minute (or
more likely three), just like
my little orphan auntie used to do
back when the regenerative stillborn
recollections astonished even the staunchest
followers of the occult (and lesser occult-like
activities cut from a quite-similar cloth (or suitable
cloth-like substance that may adequately demonstrate
the tensile strength of a natural fiber (cotton
would be the fairest readymade comparison))).
Fetushead was a teacher of mine
who usually kept his temper in check,
but one day he lashed out at our class
when we weren’t paying attention to him
(we couldn’t answer the questions he asked).
There was something going on in his personal life
that caused him substantial stress,
but we students had no clue, being dumb kids at the time.
the fetus for a head
would have contributed to his overall grouchy demeanor
in that situation (and every other he would come to navigate).
That he kept his cool
for so much of the time
was taken for granted by
the snot-nosed punks of
the hallowed gated community founded by
J. Rick Rubins,
the only exalted LEADER that our planet can trust
to usher us into the 22nd Century we deserve.
It’s not immediately clear as to why we should express gratitude for these minuscule things we take for granted every day,
but certain wise people–time and again–have said that inner peace is really just gratitude wrapped up in some nondenominational bunting and tossed over the side of a pontoon while you’re fishing in the middle of Lake Superior in the middle of the longest day of Summer,
where somehow you find one lonesome chunk of ice inexplicably adrift as though it could have been placed there for the purpose of setting up a convenient visual aid for a climate change documentary.
Little Bergamot–that’s what we’re calling our frozen hero du jour–simply minds their own business out there, doing their best not to knock into anybody, when out of the blue someone inconsiderate–such as yourself, perhaps–putzes their way over and just so happens to chuck that bunting, smacking ol’ Bergie right in their weak little slush-filled belly,
sending our hapless pilgrim to re-integrate with its watery cousins
much quicker than otherwise established through melting rates
extolled by scientists the world around as
“the purest definition of why humans shouldn’t underestimate
the contributions made to global ecology
through strict, unbiased observation of this universe around us.”
Or some version of that sanctimonious diatribal crap; Bergie won’t be around to hear it anyway.
This insinuative retreat right here
will find us contemplating
at the bitter end of firsts,
where we ultimately unwind
the flitting intricacies
formally acquainted with the frigid
bridges of the morn,
or what we would otherwise call
the belaying of the holy trinity
(deployment of proper parsonage,
delayment of prosperous personage).
In one word or another,
we’re all glad to be cloaked
in that vinegar-spritzer veil
associated with the sleaziest
cashier chicken spirit sprints.
“Turn strange, fair beefeater,”
Curtisson mentioned on the car ride
over to the museum. “Your
leaves behind the tragic old
misconception of the garlic-laden
bindling-gebaut, untold though
not unmade or unmasked, undeveloped,
penning the pennies through the portrait
of a golem in trouble with the law.”
Is that man’s law or God’s law?
I prefer to think of it as God slaw:
nice and crunchy with a musical quality
once it’s making its way back to the soil.
“We only have sevenscore paper clips
left in the entire warehouse; I said
we shouldn’t panic, but I was putting on
my brave face, hoping things would
turn themselves around. But they’ve just
turned strange, fair beefeater, and
we’d better figure out our whole
monument situation, pronto.”