Poems and other Randomocities
The atmosphere was one of light-hardheartedness and general mirth. Small talk and generic persiflage tickled the ears of passersby; the ubiquitous red shirts and old-style, ripped blue jeans that comprised the uniform of the shopkeepers might have been distracting, had the scene itself not provided a multiplicity of foreign and wild distractions. The floors were scattered haphazardly with tiles of multifarious shape and style. The mad colors blended with the dull grout and otherwise quotidian construction of the old building. Indeed, had those employed been dressed in naught but their essentials, the newcomer to this exhibit would have thought it none the stranger nor less fantastic. The walls held hand-painted murals and glass mosaics of nefarious looking poultry and graphic demembrations of various fowl. Many have pondered the state of consciousness of the artist from whose mind these images came: demented, insane, inebriated?
The establishment manages, somehow, to escape giving the impressions of a spurious or dubious nature. The real danger lies in the posterior of the curious shop. The clandestine–nay, even surreptitious–operations of those who work behind the visible operation. Indubitably, the operations were properly sanctioned through the various and customary routes of authoritarian government obtainment of permissions, yet when one was allowed into the cookery, the crushing reality of the atrocities committed therein were brought to light. Composed of the organization was this verse of undoubted truth and verisimilitude:
‘Twas a scene so foul, In the indeterminable bowel,
Of that terrible, queer, and violent store.
The place did give, of its own derive,
A feeling and aura, reminisce of Pandora,
Hidden behind that deathly door.
For whom did it open? For what was within?
What could in the dreadful unknown be?
There behind that door of metal,
Wrought from pan, pot, and kettle,
There work the ones who peddle,
The lovely fried goodness, we call, KFC.
To look out into the stores and streets,
The thoughts of a sacrifice are not brought to mind.
The pastel-colored decor and cheap plastic eggs serve the perfect compliments,
Celebration and gaiety are rampant; thought better serves duller days.
Solemnity is not present; why should a bunny evoke such feelings?
The religious are more so, for today is important.
The house is proper and children are preened.
The church is prettied, and the pews are cleaned.
The glamor is prepared, and the preacher is ready,
A big crowd is expected today.
The kitchens are abuzz with talk and bustle,
This is the big day!
The families in their homes are running in circles.
Clean under the table! Move those chairs!
The dust is evacuated, and the windows shine.
The in-laws are coming! No time for discussion!
The food must be ready, the clothes must be ironed.
The eggs have been prepped and colored,
Hidden in the yard for the children to find.
The house is prettied, and the yard is cleaned.
The talks are prepared, and the father is ready.
A big dinner party is happening tonight.
The games are prepared, and the parlor is set.
This is the big day!
Thought better serves duller days,
After all, why make such a bright time dreary?
Joy is found in the Lord!
He wouldn’t want thought to hinder the glee.
Bunnies and eggs, bright clothes and good food.
Think rather on these things.
Chocolate, caramel, sugar, and Peeps,
These are the fruits of the spirit.
Eat and be merry, as the good book says.
From whom should we expect contradiction?
Celebrations are here.
This is the big day!
These are his eggs, and this is his chocolate;
Eat this in remembrance of him.
He was pierced for your pretty clothes:
Crushed for your Easter dinner.
The widows and orphans watch as the show is performed,
After all, weren’t we commanded to represent him?
He suffered to break the cycle, to complete the law;
If you love him, you will buy lawn ornaments.
The wardrobe has the focus of the weekend;
The oven has the place of honor.
The sacrifice was made long ago, why think on such sadness?
This is the big day!
Go and make disciples of all the other church-goers!
Use pretty colors and serve tasty food!
Dress in fancy clothes, and gather in a safe brick house.
Separate yourself from the world with a wall.
Be in the world, but not of it.
Take up its traditions, but ignore its people.
If they are worthy, they will be attracted to the show.
Do not associate with those lower than thou.
He died for our sins; let’s talk about the splendor of spring!
He was raised to cover our iniquities; let’s buy a suit!
Let’s go to church, for today at least.
After all, today is the big day.
“‘Tis a pity,” said the mongoose to the wildcat, when he arrived back in the palace. “It seems I have misplaced my footwear in the garden.” “What a shame!” replied the wildcat, “I always did believe in ghosts.” The aardvark in the corner was a much better guest, but that was in the olden days. Now the lore is much more subdued.
Whilst the trio of crazies were fancifully fulfilling the roles of each in their own way, the trains rolled on through the night. The owls flew overhead and the mice all cheered for the moon. “To be in this state,” thought the bear to himself, “must be an odd feeling for a moose.” The trap thought the same, although much more subdued, for when did the iron ever think on its own? On through the evening, the great horses ran. The steam off them rolling, the coal burning through. “Oh, for a daisy!” cried the great blue lagoon, and the fish all swam in a pool.
“To go to school! That is our goal,” exclaimed the one with the beard and the shovel. They all soon agreed, and off they traversed, to see why the cows all cried “Moo!” For the cats in the cradle, this is not strange: to see all these odd things in play. For when does it happen, that all this is written, and where does the drunk priest pray?
These were the thoughts that ran through his head, as he sat at the base of the tree. A bit too much ale and a tad too much bagel, this is what ruined his day. So, let this be a lesson to those who are wary, to never go out for a stroll. When the moon is all purple, and the parrots are crying, and the whimsical take up a pen. Woe to the man who makes sense of this. His brain soon might take leave of him.
With that, I bid you good night.