Tinkering is the art of incrementalism.
The heart grows fonder with each quarter-turn of a socket wrench,
I invest my time to top off her fluids when she’s running low,
Check the tread on her tires,
Pull out any dents,
Because she can’t do that on her own.
In return,
she gets me where I need to go,
and only asks of me,
that I put in the time.
She works for me,
and I her
I’m just happy to help.
It turns out,
Saying “don’t be nervous,”
Is a great way,
To be counterproductive.
Fear is self-sabotage,
And more often than not,
Fired in an unexpected,
Barrage.
Like a bull in a china shop,
It raises hell,
And won’t stop,
Prancing,
And dancing all over,
Your most precious,
Fabergé eggshells.
The floor,
Wasn’t a great place,
To put those,
If I’m being honest.
But that’s not important,
Anymore,
Because it’s time to acknowledge,
These animals in the room.
Quick,
Go get some tweezers,
And glue,
While I patch up,
The kicked-down door,
So no more,
Come through.
I’ve built you up quite a bit,
And I’m finding it harder and harder,
To leave than ever before.
If I could see in here,
I’d find unwound wires,
That cross-cross the cracks,
In the concrete,
And trickles of tap water,
That run down your façade.
But being off-the-grid,
Has it’s own advantages-
If walls could talk,
They’d tell you that,
We reach high here,
In spite of what we’re missing.
No sunrise goes unseen,
People stand on their balconies,
With nothing,
And also everything they need.
Walking,
Blindfolded,
Through the annals,
Feeling the walls,
And using echolocation.
The ancient texts,
Sacred incantations,
Chants of legends,
Contained in texture,
To be deciphered,
By a stylus,
Which cannot,
Transcribe.
Each pressing,
With its own,
Character.
Each batch with,
It’s own,
Flaws,
Hissing,
Popping,
Scratches,
Not even counting,
The shattered ones.
Revolutions,
Dictate,
No matter,
How convoluted,
The labyrinth,
Until it’s time,
To switch,
To the other side.
Every so often,
I hear the doorbell ring,
When I’m not expecting company.
Sometimes,
I look through the peep hole,
And see nothing at all,
“Damn kids,”
I’ll say,
Presumptively.
Sometimes,
It’s just the mailman,
So I sign for something,
Then he’s on his merry way.
But once in a while,
It’s you,
“Come on in,”
I say.
“Take a seat,”
I’ll go get some drinks,
And snacks.
We relax,
Tell some stories,
To fill in the gaps,
“It’s been too long,” you say.
I know it has,
“But I cannot stay,”
I also know that,
“Take your time,”
Glad I could give you,
Some of mine.
When you stand up,
With your arm,
Half in your jacket,
I ask nothing more of you.
When there’s nothing left to say,
All I want,
Is to be sure,
For now,
That you’re doing okay.
Achtung!
Use with caution,
You could rupture,
The sky,
Flatten,
Your house,
Or put,
An eye out.
The handle is too short,
And it looks a tad tacky,
It’s head is made of lead,
And Loki,
Keeps scheming,
To steal it away.
But,
Credit where credit is due,
It works wonders,
Holds great power,
And can still be seen,
Today.
It still rings true,
They don’t make them,
Like they used to.
An odd, viscous concoction,
Consisting mostly of water,
Amino acids,
Sugars,
Vitamins,
And other nutrients,
Served up,
Neat,
In a queen cup.
One protein,
Royalactin,
Gives aspiring queen’s,
Political careers,
Traction.
They feast,
Learn etiquette,
Mature,
And leave,
To settle-down,
Fill power vacuums,
And form factions.
Up from the abyss,
Leaning in,
For this,
Pressing against,
The precipice.
“Not quite,”
Walking the line,
Not going quietly,
But we never intersect,
Not that there wasn’t any interest,
Or an interception,
But unrequited I stay.
The end,
Becomes smaller,
Ever smaller,
Yet does not fade away.
You can do anything,
If you whittle it away,
Day by day.
To become dexterous,
First learn some points of reference.
Next,
Take these sections,
And test them,
Until perfected,
I.E. effortless.
You’ll earn precious interest,
And revel,
In new-found zealousness.
Years ago,
What was just depiction,
We now know,
Is not fiction.
Mechanical animals,
Seemed laughable,
Impractical,
But now they’re factual,
Downright palpable,
But not infallible.
They’re slow and loud,
Too pricey to make crowds,
Not even endowed,
With body shrouds.
Limbs twisted,
Moving pistons,
Exposed systems,
Soon to be,
Big business.
Mechanical mules,
Climbing like cats,
In need of fuel,
That isn’t grass.
The File Pile 