A younger tree stands pert and upright
against the setting sun
on an April afternoon of little consequence–
to anyone other than perhaps
the octahedral chainsmokers out there, but that’s
a conversation for another time and place, m’friend.
The bud-tipped nerve endings are raw,
eager for a consistent warmth to figure itself out.
The trees all know
what they’ve gotten themselves into these days,
after noticing all the human affectations
popping up around them
The existential rigamarole isn’t lost on them,
believe me. They know
that we only keep them around
for their oxygen supply, isn’t that obvious?
If we could find a cheaper or more efficient way
to convert a global supply of carbon dioxide
into breathable oxygen,
we would drop everything
and jettison all those woody worriers
into space, where they could become
petrified ornaments, immaculate baubles
showcased in an ever-expanding curio cabinet.
The details on such a plan
have never been made clear, since
it’s likely never to happen.
Lucky bastard trees.
You too, shrubs. I’m watching you.
To the chagrin of the motorbiking penguin-flipper, we carry old prairie weights for a regardless happenstance. Well, regardless, we’re quite unkempt for the situation–the scenario, if we will. But it’s okay, we’re all living some version of this or any other truths, not to be degraded for any reason or purpose.
The bellwether, or weather of bells–as I’d sometimes rather say–has stood in direct opposition to the canine point of equilibrium separating our ancestors from the ravenous wolves who once stormed down our doors for even just a hint of carnage. But times change. People grow and domesticate those pesky sheep they’d once only counted prior to slumber, involuntarily offering a small portion of their flocks to satisfy the taxation meted out by the gods that our dogs only wish they could be.
Tempered by the blunt end
of a stainless steak knife,
throttled by a lack of anything
interesting to say–
say, how’s that weather?
Primary’s coming up,
don’t trust any of those clowns;
the whole system’s downright screwy anyway.
Can’t get behind those corporations
parading around as individuals,
CEOs making their dirty millions.
Can’t keep up this smalltalk,
I just want to scream
at those crows hopping
over there. Who told them
they could have fun
while I’m around?
I can’t stand it
when others enjoy themselves,
especially animals. I can’t
tell them off
like I can a human, not that
I make it my business
to harass people.
The closest I’d ever get
would be a stoic monologue
about the nature of the universe
and its tendency to dissolve
without a moment’s notice.
I can make many a soul
with that shrapnel language,
if you can believe it.
Let me impart some wisdom here, o merciful captors of the highest order. Considering that you’ve let me flap my gums unabated, I probably don’t need to request your permission, but I do like to exercise my manners from time to time. Anywho, brown nosing won’t get me anywhere anyway.
Instill the stilt mentality, walk higher than most without extensions and greet the lovely beings who used to be just out of reach. Examples include, but are not limited to: squirrels, crows, sparrows, cardinals, pigeons, and the occasional parakeet. On one particular occasion you may think you’ve run across a raccoon, but after fifteen minutes of observing how it hasn’t moved one iota the entire time, you come to the conclusion that this minuscule member of the bear family is just an elaborate trick of light.
Your stilts are strong, able to withstand a wide range of climatic changes until deep Winter sets in. These stilts–and most other stilts out there–do not fare well in the bitter frost snap you might find as a local of Chicago or Fargo or St. Paul in those early months. Do not–let me insist–do not inhabit such weather on stilts–at least this particular model–or your quality of life will rapidly diminish, possibly ending in personal extinction.
There is nothing inherently wrong with wanting to embody a certain ideal for height consciousness in the frigid playground, but beware! Each second exposed to the short days’ elements removes three seconds from the potential remainder of your life. Always ensure that you are carrying a stopwatch with you.
Do not trust my words. Do not trust a single thing I’ve said to date.
Is this all for naught?
I really wish I could use my arms.
We take with us all matter of things, insomuch as it stands to be ever an incher of pincher cinchers, where schnitzel bricks spend all-day expeditions of exquisite daydream clamfaces–by the cola machine is where our lord takes his things. Bitter nut jobs make extraordinary leaps through our galaxy, but never when you have an economy rooted in capitalism, that dollar ever-chained to something way older than our collective responsibilities and squared up to a door we must have forgotten like a stamp mailed on a letter to the dentist some Tuesday back in December when the weather was much nicer but the days were much shorter and you sure as hell don’t miss that one bit, as goddamn cold as it may be right now, god dammit. I really wish I could use my arms.
You can bet on a downpour of rain in our interminable waiting room this afternoon.
It’s been sunny for seven straight days here, and my elbow never acts up like this when good weather is on the horizon (if we could indeed see the horizon from here). Cover up the magazines, we don’t want those National Geographics to lose their sheen after so many years of being in near-mint condition.
In the weather
and aftermath of said weather
(not something to be foretold,
but guessed at by thousands
of lazy meteorologists),
we shall light the spark
of a righteous flame
and carry it with us
in our pockets.
that our pants
must be flame-retardant.
You may find such a garment
at your local department store,
wherever pants are sold.