-Bar Codes For The Dating of Last Week’s Milk-
The question paper or plastic? Is better in reference to back massages. In that case, plastic. Go paper on the crevice next to the canned tomatoes. I would like my receipt to use knuckles. Don’t squash the sourdough. Should I put raw meat in its own protective? Don’t tell me to have a nice day, if you just nestled toothpaste in with cauliflower. I already swiped my card, and that mechanical click hasn’t yet made a humm-clunk. I wonder if I should have got more bowtie pasta. Those oblong plastic batons make my unsalted butter more distinct than her TV dinners and frozen kale. What am I making for dinner? Perhaps this shirt has too many stains to wear in a salad. I could have gotten a cart but instead I thought my elbows were crook enough for a weekend. 00 Be the...
Read More-Poetry Process And How To Guide-
Grind coffee beans using a paper clip. So the resulting bean dirt, mostly bean, could brew fly portions coffee. Or perhaps wield a doorstop to glue envelopes shut. The thuds. The crumpling. You mash and call for scotch, or maybe tape. Educe smiles by adipose cells instead of muscle. As if smirking was something you did before. Then breathe. Almost. It takes. Somehow a sponge is involved; its porous pomposity. Leech. Or more drink. Foam gets all up in that. Finally there’s a gag reflex. And before you words. Like caffeine, rushed and delible. As if some sense. Hold backspace until page is achromatic. Take up knitting. 00 Be the 1st to vote.Share...
Read More-An Epitaph out of Respect for String Beans-
Ho-hum he died. Thumbs his main accomplishment. They stuck out, he more… protruded, amuck did run his gullet. There he lies six deep in spry, hair glopped like jelly, nose akin to anchor rusted. Shows how much he maladjusted. 00 Be the 1st to vote.Share...
Read More-Purposeful Nimbus Musing-
She lampposts a jig. The street is sheen and plastic; her hat a marionette. It should be raining. But maybe she is too much slatch anyway. Like she prefers it to be wrong and sunny. That way she can babble and be her own puddles. Fog is she, but something more denude. I get the idea she would have a rummy face in photographs. Always a little tilted like Picasso’s drunken selfies. Then she passes. 00 Be the 1st to vote.Share...
Read More-Textures of Youth-
When I was five, pressing my cheek to things was better than television. I remember the carpet, where I could feel each spring and poke of tan jellyfish fiber. Or an addled metal pole with spots where the paint chips and slowly opens its cold blossoms. Deeper than purple, with a pang like mandarin oranges. I would let car windows turn on their Zambonis and smooth my temples so the all-skate could resume its clockwise tingling. A wooden porch, with its prickle army and long noodle edges. There’s a twisting. It marches to war with pinch banners held high. My mom’s skirt. Hornets and flitting wings. A wooden firmness that heaves– oceanic as she walks. Then there were trees their flaky baked-with-craisins. An occasional baguet, or rooty dumpling. I could get lost in...
Read More-Springform Ghazal-
A suspension bridge runs from my lower back to interchange my nape. Tension is made of speed limits less than 5mph. In bumper-to-bumper twinge, with my knackered clutch foot. Even railroads have switches yet my shoulder blades don’t interrupt the current. This is an untenable strict fiber diet. I could chew calm or something savory. But It doesn’t take a roadblock to constrict; never reason a prerequisite for ligaments. So I am wound. Wounded is the same torque, same letters even, past-tense. Poems have no place in puns, say they. It just winds wind into the winding. What I need is a bowling ball and some gravity. I could break hard into this twist, and blunt trauma my muscles. It seems there is something relaxing about intrusion. 00 Be the 1st to vote.Share...
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