It’s that time of year again, Linda! All the kids have been plunking themselves down in front of their TVs this evening for one reason and one reason only: The 46th Annual BacArthur Restaurant Industry Genius Grant Conferment Ceremony, brought to you by Susan and Thomas Q. BacArthur, The Gene F. and Billy D. McGillicuddy Foundation, viewers like you, and several billionaires. The festivities kicked off a few hours early this year, with a charming cocktail reception that appears primed to become a yearly tradition, should the food and beverage industry continue enjoying unprecedented growth–our economic experts unanimously agree to this trend’s sustainability as we close out 2019.
Several of the past year’s top emerging bartenders have been hired to wet the whistles of the greatest eatery / watering hole luminaries in our tri-state region. If you look carefully, you might just see the glimmering looks of magnanimity in the eyes of all these foodservice professionals as they wait with bated breath to find out who’s the lucky recipient of the prize that will allow them to explore their more scholarly pursuits for at least a week–perhaps a fortnight, depending on their current cost/s of living–without having to pick up a desperation shift at the last minute next Friday night.
Truly the American Dream, Linda.
The biggest, most poignant pen
writes the antithesis of the expected,
the people with lives expressed
experience, embarked upon
out of necessity
to insulate from the severe
of a marginalized people
fucked up our entire species,
ethically and genetically.
Speaking truth is necessary;
we can’t worry about
transcending race or gender,
there is only
a singular consciousness,
lived at all moments of our lives.
We are merely its witnesses.
Thank you for sharing
your visions of truth
and illuminating my perception.
You are my teacher, my ally,
my person of interest.
Don’t we all take for granted
the stag’s leaps or the hyena’s skips
as perpetual representations of a group
that denigrates the works of mankind?
Too many toads take too much time
to throw titillated molotov cocktails
betwixt the orthogenetic felons
of our once-forgotten past,
whistled between a shar-o-ise
and a heart.
The chamber solvent
has a triumphant shield
quite unlike the present-minded
earth warbler, unmade
as a man of science and marked
as a man of knowledge
in the community that really matters–
the one that brings us
to a crater of conscience
that may easily be sustained
if pursued in earnest.
Road woes continue for a small band of pheasants. They’ve lost three members already, a mother and two adolescent sons. We’re not sure whether they took a break at an inviting watering hole, or if they got shot by a wayward doorknob hunter. We’ll inform you as soon as we get confirmation of their whereabouts.
Turns out, a peasant got the pheasants. It doesn’t seem pleasant, and it isn’t, but even those of our species subjected to squalid conditions are entitled to the spoils of ingenuity when they come across it. The world’s pheasant population will recover in two weeks’ time, wish we could say the same for the countless massacred peasants, bless their hides.
I really wish I could use my arms—I have a crazy itch between my shoulder blades.