Poem: Silly Things

Silly Things

By John Cappello
QuailBellMagazine.com

Hunting a rabbit with an elephant gun
Could not be more silly an idea'r.
The irrevocable size of the bullet
Would surely disintegrate the bunny.
So no trophy.

Throwing eggs instead of hand-grenades
Leaves a very facetious mess of the enemy.
So if, perchance, we had a baker's conundrum?

There're ticks- Invisible ticks no less- causing me an itch.
There's an ad for that.
EXPLOSION CONTRACEPTIVE!!! IT'S THE MOST WILDLY OUTDATED FORM OF SEXUAL PROTECTION! WOW!!!!!!
All bad things must come to an end as well!
But DEAR GOD there are so many aches
In a room full of anvils. Oh Giddy,
To think I am confused of paltry and poultry.
And if the room tilts, the anvils don't slide.
If the room shakes, the anvils obliviously tenderize.
But if you give an eye to the beasts, those damned things STILL sit there!!!
What we've got here is a failure to communicate.
I yell at the anvils. I try stabbing the anvils. But the anvils,
Uncollege, cantankerous repose in these side-down dinner plates,
in some abstract way, or resembling a crooked nose,
They remit! I have triumphed! Sardine'd!!!
Gak! Nope. That one in tilted-scape just furled her compromisings.
Yet one things still remains.
WHY THE HELL AM I STILL STANDING IN THIS ROOM WITH SORDID ANVILS FOR RARE GLEAM OF CARTOONISH DANCE?!!!
It's elementary, really. I've got one sitting on my leg.

A mallard’s mandible hinged underneath that red.
His generous constitution kept him long enamored
For he was heartily generous in his own mind.
Fetched for an Antithesis -that common currency-
Which bleated under a sternum seldom.
O that prize. But not enough.
So with precious sovereignty and –in prospect- a mutable merit badge
He skipped him. Homeward. Still a worthless scop.
At his chamber he stayed, with hasted soppiness in a mood.
Never could he give himself that ugly fondling that soon made his name.
This obvious parody of a selfish artiste.
By habit made of counting chickens; farr bizarre.

And then I should find a cottage to nest my tempers~
Though windowless it was~
It seemed to have been deliberately built without a roof,
Which shoulders my irksome query-
The Sobriety of the architect.

I took upon the road on a moose with no name
Who didn't take me far -had a bad ear infection he did-
So he didn't know whether to go or stop at any sign
In the deaf pantry settings of a hook-note forest.
I raised him under the belief that he triumphed the dinosaurs so as to reign supreme.
Patterson, as he was doubtfully named, had that air about him.
And hence he became undignified.
Who should praise a deaf, nonsense, stupid king of the forest?
Who so viciously withholds any and all temperate climates?
Besides, he is gone. Trampled by a quieting thunder
Beneath a tall Hickory that could stand no more
When it thought of making a sound when no one was around.
But Sappy, as I affectionately call him, heard every tremor in each broken inner chamber of his now resonating corpse.

Finally, the art of tattooing is a useless trade
If the subject falls into a vat of acid.
So in order to step around this procurement
One should take up whaling sport.
Because if the whale is sucked into a typhoon and thus you-
There, right there, is an easy victory.
But none so needless a trade as hair cutting-
Which is an easy bill to skip.
Hair? What hair?