A dinghy
in the middle of
this patriot’s sketchbook
provides a pure rendition
of what our ancestors
had once believed to be
a savior of some kind.
According to our current science,
the dinghy no longer ranks
among the ideal species
to be considered a deity,
but belief systems
have changed significantly
since that epoch. A list
of acceptable deities
may be found outside my office,
though not before tea time
(I despise holding class
before tea time).
Dig the grooves–
fixate raw emotion;
orange teleprompters stimulate senses,
falling down through the psyche.
Pen failings, orangeness
essential in the plunge
to crusty bits of exploded massacres
amongst the windfalls of intoxicating merriment
all boiled down to one endeavor
at one single point in time,
hopscotching on the lines of external graphics.
Internalized choosing–who’s choosing?
Everyone’s choosing! How are we to progress,
we beings,
when we always hark back to the past
and fling names, earthbound, flattening.
Not in the air, not in a museum.
I really wish I could use my arms.
Scratching my head on the walls just won’t cut it.
Theirs
is a sense
of foreboding pain,
nothing I can describe
without beginning
to seize uncontrollably
until the dogs find me,
distraught and laughing,
rolling in the gutter,
where I don’t remember winding up.
Left by the wayside with a pincushion in my mouth and an unwavering desire to turn into a penguin of some sort, I ripped a stitch from a feathered cap and unraveled the entirety of my surroundings one garment at a time. I went up to a gentleman (at least a man who appeared to exhibit gentle qualities) and ripped the chapeau from his head, forgetting that I’d already altered a head-covering. I then apologized for my amateur mistake and replaced the hat (though not without feeling the material and guessing where it was made (before reading the tag: Sri Lanka). I looked around for a scarf, but there were no ladies of suitable standing from whom I could steal such a regal accoutrement. I was puzzled, and decided that I hadn’t quite reached shirt territory without at least finding my first scarf. I then began to wander aimlessly across the plaza, wondering if I would ever find a scarf (considering the blistering summer heat). I grew weary (considering the blistering summer heat) and sought a resting place. The first patch of shade I found was located six hundred and forty-seven yards away from my initial realization of fatigue, and it sure took me a long time to reach it (a lone willow tree by a dried up river, looking rather droopy and not at all in the mood to shelter a tired traveler). I took a seat under the boughs and noticed a fine lady of royal standing resting just two meters to my right, scarf and all. Taking the situation into account, I made a snap judgment and grabbed the fabled garment. My grabbing was quite forceful and I awoke her from her light sleep. She gurgled and rolled her eyes while appearing to doubt my very existence. She seemed to accept her position as the victim in this position, letting me gradually unwrap this intricate (and obviously valuable) scarf. It took me four minutes to remove the garment, which measured seventeen feet (give or take a yard). I said a quick “thank you” and scurried off, not rested after my arduous journey, but nevertheless energized by this encounter.
Half a heifer to the man who can provide the whereabouts of the golden sombrero.
Not talking?
Okay then, a quarter heifer to the man who can muster the courage to admit his pigheadedness.
Not confessing?
Okay then, an eighth of a heifer to the man who can swim to the bottom of this lake and retrieve the gumball machine I carelessly tossed in a bout of sugar rage.
Not swimming?
Okay then, a sixteenth of a heifer to the man who can stand on one leg for more than five minutes without breathing.
Not balancing?
Okay then, a thirty-second of a heifer to the man who can shave his armpit hair and refuse to scratch the area until it’s fully grown again.
Not daring?
Okay then, a sixty-fourth of a heifer to the man who can tell me where the closest diner might be.
Not helping?
Okay then, I’ll keep the heifer and you all can go to hell.
Not going?
A tapioca polar bear approached me Easter morn
and told me I had leverage within this golden arch.
I took the time to recognize that polar bears can’t talk,
but this one shrugged and passed me by, aware that I would trail.
So he and I approached a cave, uncommon in that place.
He bade me: “sit and light a fire, your thumbs are magical”.
I laughed and got some kindling out, but lit the tinder first.
He went into a hiding place and found his finest catch.
We ate like kings; I let him have the lion’s share of fish.
“My stomach’s smaller than my hands, and not as magical.”
WHARVED 