Abhishek remains in class until the bell,
endlessly transcribing his disciplinary tome
onto the obsolete chalkboard.
"Atlantis is a fictional state."
"Atlantis is a fictional state."
"Atlantis is a fictional state."
"John Locke would have validated me,
Mr. Biespiel doesn't know anything about fictional countries!"
young Abby pondered as he trotted to cello practice.
On the way there, he became lost.
In a desert. There was a mermaid that offered counsel,
but he brushed her off, as mermaids don't know anything of deserts.
After days of trekking through the sand,
he came upon a great wooden lighthouse.
On the door, there was no handle, but a fist sized opening.
Abby took the paint can and can opener,
lodged the bendable straw in the opening,
and THUGAROOOO.
It was brillant, the IRS would never be able to track him down,
he ate too much food and left multiple false trails of lasagna drippings in his wake.
Once Abby had gained entrance into the Hawaiian palace,
under the portrait of King Henry the VIII,
Obama was waiting, laughing like a madman.
"Gotcha!" Barry was too sly to be thrown off a simple trail in the desert.
Inside the sand bucket the telephone rang.
The earthquake cause the icicle to fall, impaling the kitten.
Adjusting the sprinklers, he was the hero Gotham needed,
as his home exploded into a baguette.
Abhishek flew his kite.
The People of the Starfish by Peter Gidlund
The People of the Starfish had many accomplishments, and made sure to announce
their triumphs in the star shaped plaza in Starfish Forum.
“We, The People of the Starfish, have made
incredible strides: we have cured many
diseases, our kin are all literate
in Starfishian, and we are the
World Champions in Starfishball.
Clearly, The People of the Starfish are
supreme, and we give all the glory to The Starfish.”
The Starfish lay on its ornate throne.
“The Starfish is most displeased!
We must work harder!
We must strive for more!
Our efforts must be doubled!
We must purge ourselves of the irreverent!”
The People of the Starfish conquered many nations.
The Alliance for the Rhino had fallen long ago.
The Kingdom of the House Cat had been enslaved.
The Court of the Owl had been massacred.
The Plate of the Pancakes had been swallowed.
All that opposed The People of the Starfish
was the meek League of the Meerkat.
As the troops assembled, tanks shone in the sun,
and Destroyers stood idle, a figure came stumbling out of the forest.
“Stop, stop, stop! You must not follow through with your plan!
I have had a vision! The Starfish knows!”
Barry the Bear had caught the attention of the mighty legion.
“In my dream, I was in the stream,
looking for some food.
I snagged a trout, plopped it under my snout,
And I was a rather content dude.
On my way to my cave, I spotted the red tailed knave,
Knox the Fox had taken my Thelonious Monk cassette.
I loved those songs, I loved to sing along,
And I was cross until Knox the Fox was dead.
I followed that crook, past his nook,
As he scampered to the Pita Pit.
I wanted justice and he wanted hummus,
I wrung his neck and he squirmed a bit,
and no one ever touched my jazz collection again.
Knox the Fox was put into a box, buried 'neath a mound o' rocks,
so this is where the parable must end.”
Barry the Bear displayed a pleased visage.
The Star in the sky couldn't compare to the star in his eye.
“What was that? That had nothing to do with
The Starfish, or The Meerkat, or our invasion!”
Barry the Bear crumpled his brow,
And explained with a quite fierce growl,
“I said I had a vision, I didn’t say it applied.
Not everything revolves around you, you know!”
The battalion seized and arrested Barry the Bear
And 50 years later he croaked in the electric chair.
The People of the Starfish quickly
demolished the League of the Meerkat.
The Starfish lay on its ornate throne.
Butcher Shop by Peter Gidlund
I trotted into the butcher's office.
Two indistinguishable men columned the counter.
Wearing faces with no details, they eyed my eyes.
Their holey shirts left nothing to the imagination,
especially in such a hot, humid, holy place,
effectively displaying their defensive, meated rotundity.
I did not know why I chose to browse,
among the shelves of piggies and cows,
surveying the pryamids of roast beef
and the missiles of gristle.
Upon whiffing and sniffing a carnal scent,
I abruptly had a reactionary taste for salad.
The butcher caught my gunning,
raised the most stern of brows, as if to say,
"What? No good? These chops speak for themselves."
And they did. I bought half a pound of mutton,
and that night I ate half a pound of mutton.
In the morn I spent half the month's work on his craft
and I never looked back. His blood was my blood,
from then on I was connected to that maestro
from his cuts and feats of meat.
I took my girl to the cinema that night.
We saw a bland film, about a bland man,
he did some bland things, but we weren't really watching.
Once the credits rolled, we rolled over to Geno's.
My vegan girlfriend ordered a bruschetta,
followed by a costly ailoli,
with a mushroom mango pate.
I ate many things, but there was no food.
Chuck the Butcher had captivated my senses.
Like a lover's embrace, I could not forget.
The primal stench of sun glazed flesh,
tags and signs that had me yearn for yesteryear,
a nostalgia of a timeless deli,
where nothing is yielded to the meat.
the dripping juices on my face,
that made me admit I wished I had a bib.
In his primeval carnarium, Chuck ground through
his timeless job, making his meats,
staking his steaks. An apricot tart could
hardly compare to ground chuck between two buns.
He stole my heart, through my tongues.
Drifty October by Peter Gidlund
If October is a jellyfish, May is
the hyena,
cackling like a sleepy little baby,
discovering oatmeal for the first time,
crackling like a soggy berry off the
tree, ripe beyond age.
May is a hyena, doing the heavy
lifting, drawing first blood,
collecting taxes, gnawing the
scraps.
October is a jellyfish, drifting
through the surf, oblivious to currents, out of its mind, praying for prey.
October is the jellyfish washed up
on the beach,
no longer regulating the water, but
still a thorn of the sand.
Earlier today, I passed a gate to
nowhere.
The line pointed to the side, but
the true jib
was straight ahead. A few
other guests were making their way in,
the dance from wind was about to
start.
The grasses shimmied and shook, the
trees stood and swayed.
The stalwart cross stands detattched
from nuisance,
A giant Russian egg doll, made from
the remains of
past life, molded and cut to its
current stance.
Life from death, death from life,
all mothers know to recycle.
Inside of the past, nothing had left
and none had gone,
An anchor, symbol of industry, cast
of iron, casted by man,
its components and composition were
all the same scam,
leftovers of the previous endeavor.
Once in a dream sleep ceases, and
genius takes the wheel,
an engine of centripetal force, the
heavier the ball is,
the faster the call goes, the faster
the moon orbits, the sooner the string breaks
I never thought life could be such a
hoot,
echoing and summoning visions of the
future's past.
I never thought life could be so much
about fruit.
Wearing your skin and peel, like a
three piece suit.
I never thought life could be such a
drag, endless
possibilities, in every capability,
for every type of porridge imaginable.
There are no longer three settings
for our lives and times.
What is a decision, on top of a
forest, inside of a whale.
Believe me what happened next, it
stood up and
gazed through the peekhole, into the
granite, a well.
Nothing to tame, the beast inside,
no longer taking life for a ride.
No time left to spend in my quarry.
The worst thing you ever said to me
was that I
was part of the effort and
action. How could you
know what could be work, without a
face or hair?
When might you say, that the brittle
will break?
These days I feel like a plum,
trying to plumb
the depths of your heart, the canopy
of your mind.
I feel like a sailor at sea, seeing
himself,
inside of the delicate pyramid, a
monument to stain.
Listen: you can't do it as one
or alone. There is no
singularity for the somber, all of
infinity to zero,
but without the one.
Once in October, I found the
sneakiest way to fall down stairs.
The key is to holler and hoot, to
reign and to root.
Fall down the chimney, covered in
soot, Santa is a jerk.
Discrete Lobotomy by Peter Gidlund
Inside of the hotel there is a
forest.
It stems and sways, but never really
finds
the answer to its days, the answer
for
for sun ablaze. Inside the
hotel there
is a sleepy hermit who wears no
socks.
He's been everywhere and lost
everything.
But he still holds humor in his
pocket,
sprinkling it a bit over every time
to say, Oh, so it goes, or Oh, all
of
my woes! The hermit recludes
and retreats,
not afraid of the shame of losing a
day's work, or the esteem and
respect of
others, as he had already lost them
in his salty storms of lost sarcasm.
The ascetic has all the company
that he, could ever need. He
has no such
capacity for the blather, prattle,
and drivel of modern day gossameur.
He has no time to waste in the
presence
of his unconciousness, anxious to
get
to the bed, to become intimate with
the hermit, anticipating the nap.
As if to endure one or the other,
psychosis or a discrete lobotomy.
Inside of the forest there is a
waif,
searching for lost time, slowly
melting his mind,
counting up to nine, making sure it
rhymes.
A mind is a terrible thing to lose,
but to think of all things we have
lost to
the mind, clearing memory and
solitude,
but that's really not that much, you
don't mind?
For Who Doesn't Believe in Anything?
by Peter Gidlund
I asked myself
What, Peter, does
a lie mean, for one who can't believe in truth?
What is strategy for those without games?
Who, Peter, is
the righteous and who is the criminal,
for someone who can't believe in right or wrong?
What is a store for one who doesn't own?
What, Peter, is war,
for someone who isn't manifested of anger?
What is mayhem for those without order?
What is mayhem, for one with no car insurance?
What, Peter, is sex,
for one who hasn't seen the face of love?
What is education, for someone who
can't and won't comprehend consciousness?
What is time for one who has no history?
What, Peter, could language be for one who
has never imagined another?
What, Peter, could language be for one who
has never imagined the separate other?
What is traffic, for one who has never
thought of car, or even a place to go?
What is speed for one who hasn't known time?
What is poem for one who has no rhyme?
Who, Peter, doesn't believe in belief?
For who doesn't believe in anything?
animals.
Loss and Loess by Peter
Gidlund
All the new thinking is about loss
erosion, the banks and the loess.
It is the denominator of the lowest.
Asking out a girl, rejected by the
lass.
A loss in my mind, sleeping through
class.
A paper in a hot car, about to curl,
milk in the sun, about to curdle.
Eating too much pie, about to hurl.
Falling on your face, as you attempt
to hurdle.
Having your favorite pet you
notice in your store.
An abnormally large hampster,
that you named Ferdinand, and held
dear,
but it had to escape the cage.
At an age where it is impossible
to see anything other than that
fact.
I ran through the day like a fiery
mare.
Hoofing upon the impressionable sod.
Drew, on a strength I didn't
have before finding new life to
fill the spot of the hampster, a
puppy.
A lively young buck, that likes to
prance and squeal.
About to steal the corn, but it is
too late.
The new puppy keeping us safe, never
leaving my side.
For what is loss, but just a
vacancy,
in the hotel of my heart.
Orpheus's Melody by Peter
Gidlund
The sun rising over
the mountains, the son,
playing his gamboy,
Charizard and Blastoise,
paper and scissors,
victory and loss,
have been decided,
long before the match
As
the splint feeds
the
feeble flame,
in
the heart of
the
lonely cave, looking
for
friends to swallow up,
like
a selfish nephilim.
As
my hair falls out,
My
teeth to rot,
My
eyes are deaf,
And
my ears are blind,
My
mouth is sealed,
Wandering
in a steely cave
searching
for the treasure
of
a trusted friend,
The
Original companion
on
my side, till the whistle,
I would not want for
them to faint, or to
feint their crys, but their
strength will only raise,
from the raze of the cave,
or the rays of our star.
Sassy Park Ranger by Peter
Gidlund
Why couldn't I have been a lawyer or
doctor like my folks pleaded me to
be?
I like nature, but all these people
are
so irksome. Isn't it common
knowledge
that you can't smoke on the park
grounds? I am
supposed to tell him to stop, but
he's yoked.
I have to police these people
somehow.
"Excuse me, miss! Yeah, I
know it's Sunday,
yeah, there's still no
fishing. The lake doesn't
even have any wildlife in it.
Well, that's nice that your dad's
the senator,
but you still can't fish here.
There are no fish."
"Excuse me, sir! Yeah,
your trumpeting is
disturbing others. No, I don't
know Chet
Baker and you are not allowed
trumpet"
"Excuse me Miss! I'm not
quite certain where
one would obtain a domesticated
monkey, but you are not allowed to
walk
it in the park. Please pick up
after it."
What is wrong with those
woods? It's like midnight
over there. Has that always
been that way?
Why couldn't I have just been a
teacher
or a historian, following in
the path of Michael Donaldson the
Third?
I wish turkey legs were sold in the
park.
Even a slice of pizza, or a scoop
of gelato would hit the spot.
"Excuse me little girl, no
dancing, no
skipping, no prancing about, no fun
allowed.
Please keep it down, nature is for
adults."
"Pardon me, find an ashtray for
your pipe."
Where do these people come
from? They
look odd and bizarre, like from a
painting.
These people are ruining the nature.
Trees by Peter Gidlund
Running through a dream, falling
through a haze,
pleasure, not joy, seems to be
everywhere,
solving a puzzle to feel
accomplished,
avoiding the city's incessant howl.
Interrupting the bi-weekly cypress
tea party, I haggardly stumbled to
their holy clearing, I was met by a
volley of contemptuous stares, as
they
froze, hardly moving in the gawky
breeze.
As if to communicate all at once,
their deafening silence filled the
basin,
I received their simple message, I
was
unwelcome, like a balloon in a
porcupine den,
seen as a traitor to a land I never
loved.
Not wanting to look like a schmuck
who came
miles from society for nothing,
I started to eat my granola bar,
embarrassed by the wrapper's claim
to be
"all natural," I scarfed
down my godless snack.
The legion of foot high wheat
soldiers stand
at attention, prepared to swipe at
my
shins, before I could even attempt
to
drop my plastic relic of humanity.
From my perceived littering and
loitering,
the Grove emitted their bloodless
umbrage.
As I retreated from their dismissal,
I silently rejoined that my devices
are just as Earthly as those elitist
shrubs,
for what in my domain is not
temporal?
Dust to dust, rust to brush, all
things holy.
Humanity's gizmos and gadgets might
be newfangled and invasive, but they
were once minerals in the dirt, just
as
was the trunk of the tree, the spire
of
the hedge, or the bill of the
platypus.
A waxy wrapper will not decompose,
in a human life, or a redwood's
life,
but the planet does not mind, as it
is
its kin, though transmogrified by
the vile
madness of human ingeniuity,
like a petty science experiment.
What is the spark of life, but a
prolonged
chemical reaction, that endlessly
repeats and refracts, setting laws,
to break.
The Pokemans by Peter Gidlund
I was on a long and arduous journey.
Youngster Joey wants to battle!
I was lost for many weeks at a
time.
Mom, I can't just save in the middle
of battle!
Youngster Joey wants to battle!
Electabuzz used Thunder on Squirtle.
Mom, I can't just save in the middle
of battle!
Our quest was of the utmost
importance.
Electabuzz used Thunder on Squirtle.
I had a handful of loyal companions.
Our quest was of the utmost
importance.
You'll get your game back after you
finish chores.
I had a handful of loyal companions.
Can you take out the trash?
It's getting stinky.
You'll get your game back after you
finish chores.
You can't play your Pokemans in
church, period!
Son, the Lawn isn't gonna cut
itself.
I was lost for weeks at a
time.
You can't play your Pokemans
in church, period!
I was on a long and arduous journey.
Embarrassment by Peter Gidlund
The Doleful Troll, under his bridge
plays his
miniature ukelele, not knowing
how to finish his tune, stuck under
the bridge.
Like a Great Sphinx, but in reverse,
he tells
anyone who wanders near an
assortment
of faux pas, miscues, and
just all around goofs.
Have you ever had a pair of great
pants?
Like a pair of pants that understood
you.
You list this pair of pants as your
role model.
Have you ever ripped a hole in the
crotch?
Have you ever been the last one to
know?
Do you forget to attach documents
to emails after you claim to have
attached it?
Do you know the sick feeling of
having
your underwear being touched by
loose hands,
because you did a huge load of
laundry,
ate some cake, and took an impromptu
nap?
Have you ever heard your favorite
song starting
to play and mistimed the first
word? Awkward…
Have you been waiting for the
transit/
with the glorious day about to get
straight up carpe diemed/ your
blazingly early,
break neck bus approaches on the
horizon,
to realize you have two different
shoes on?
Do you consistently appear clumsy in
photos?
Have you ever had too much to drink
without enough words to speak or to
think
and your monologue might be quite
verbose
at first, but then your train of
thought is derailed
as your speech ends with a sentence
fragment-
Have you ever tried to holla at a
girl in Ping's, she turns as you say
"hello,"
looks at you as if you have a bread
nose,
cringes and shoots you a patronizing
"hey,"
she skitters away with her chai
latte.
Have you ever been at Pizza Planet
buying a couple of pies and hot
wings,
the cashier comments to have a fun
party,
but there is no party, there is no
fun.
And under the bridge, the troll
regrets regrets.
It could be worse, but it could be
better.
He could be suave, but at least he
has pizza.
Enoch's Socks by Peter Gidlund
Large Enoch learned about his purple
socks,
as they came from majestic Nepal,
woven on the top of Mt. Kismet,
in the middle of a fierce lightning
storm,
by a teeny tiny little old lady.
Enoch felt uncomfortable wearing
his purple socks when he wanted to
go:
spelunking in the Grand Canyon with
Mr. T,
have pillow fights to start off
Enoch's sleepover,
kick a sick freestyle with Montay,
yo!
Large Enoch didn't go out of his
house
much, as he didn't want to pull a
thread
while getting ice cream from the ice
cream truck,
or perhaps wear a hole while getting
the mail,
or spill mustard while playing some
basketball,
-Large Enoch was very tall-
in his special purple socks from the
little old lady
woven on the top of Mt. Kismet,
in the middle of a fierce lightning
storm.
The intensity of the storm that
night
enchanted that pair of socks with
the power to
hypnotize anyone who wore the socks.
Large Enoch sat in his dead living
room
in his special purple socks and
would quite
gingerly float across the tacky old
yellow shag carpet given to Enoch by
The Nigerian Man for a chicken,
to the kitchen for another Capri Sun
and spend the rest of the day asleep
or watching Top Gun, regardless of
if
he'd seen the film before, or even
if
Blockbuster wanted their VHS back.
Enoch had a fine life in his
lifetime.
Nothing went wrong and nothing went
right.
Sometimes he ran out of paper bags
and
sometimes he ran out of very small
buttons,
but he never worried, for he had his
special
purple socks from the tiny little
old lady.
The Ants by Peter Gidlund
I like it when they get together
and talk with voices that sound
like jellyfish and ray guns,
and some of them carry sticks,
and go to Arizona in the winter,
and they like to build their
monuments,
they seem quite nice, and I'm sure
they have nice stories,
but they are always in quite a
hurry, rushing about,
I wouldn't wish to ruin their
schedule, with time running out.
They will always be the ones
to finish off the chicken bones,
to finish off ice cream cones,
they will motion for my pancakes
been syrup'd,
while my jelly doughnut is about to
erupt,
perhaps they just wanted to say
"whatsup?"
I seem to recognize one of them,
and to him I say "good
afternoon,"
but it was not the one I knew.
They will never be the ones that say
"I'm thirsty," or
"It's too crowded in here,"
but they never leave and they never
stay,
apathetic to my various small talk,
oblivious to my inquiries,
impervious to the juiciest gossip
about the catepillar on the branch,
about the most foolish rolly
pollies,
and of course about the thirsty
worms.
The ants have no leisure to mull
around,
they have shipments to take care of,
imports
and exports, displaying their
massive strength.
I remember still, the dirt patch in
back,
as I might have stepped on their
mound, "Oh no!"
all I really wanted to do was say
"Hello."
Borborygmus the Loud by Peter
Gidlund
There is a beastly thing inside of
me,
bellowing, urging, yearning for the
next meal.
My whole being is shaped by his
needs.
My legs for chasing, my paws for
strangling.
It lets out face wrenching stenches.
It poesses me for moments at a time,
commandeering my chords to let out
barbaric yawps.
Before high noon, he starts mawing
and cawing,
after I prepare a sacrifice,
he stops bugging me, and takes a
quick nap.
In an hour or two, he comes through
to pester me once more, doing his
dance,
shaking his stick, lighting my fire,
Borborymus, stomping in my stomach.
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