never can have enough.
Dont you dare ruin my brownies
with peacans or walnuts.
Chocolate goodness in handheld bites.
A brownie filled brownie,
sounds so right.
No icing, no extras,
Just chocolate times ten!
If you have had a today brownies,
then your day is a win.
I sip my cold, creamy milk
and as it slithers down my throat
I can hear the splashes of the smooth substance
as the chunks of chocolate goodness
drop like hail pebbles in the mixed of white rain
and as this delicious combination comes to a close
I can suddenly taste the bitterness knowing that it's all gone.
Deep brown color, messy as it’s eaten.
Like something that failed to crunch.
Brittle yet soft, rough and delicate.
It can be fudgy, chewy or cake-like, topped with walnuts or apricot glaze.
A heavy horse failing to hike the high mountain of crisp.
Hard on the outside, but not as taut as chocolate-chip cookies, or M&M;’s,
A fragile strength that breaks with subtle touch.
Smooth and moist inside, melted chocolate held together.
Created solely for a royal’s mouth to taste,
Slowly dissolving, sea foam sucked by the damp sand,
A guilty pleasure I cannot live without.
The brownie becoming a beautiful bouquet blossoming
In my chocolate tinted mouth.
It cures whatever ails you,
The flavor empowering any mist of dullness or bitterness.
Forgetting about everything, as he mixed the batter
Creating the perfect combination of smoothness, sweetness,
And the creamy after-taste.
Our favorite thing to bake together.
Friday evening we scurried to the kitchen, creating our own baking contest.
His hazel eyes, swirling with the batter poured in circles,
His lips, whistling to the beautiful sight of brownies, plumping as they bake.
Days later, we would come back to that kitchen,
With the scent of freshly baked brownies still lingering in the air.
We would look at each other’s deep brown eyes
Like the brownies we baked and enjoyed together.
His lips, a wallop of sweetness.
In a hologram
I am the man you would like me to be
but you see
it is me,
why do you want to know
who that I am?
but the man that's an image
a man you would pillage
and keep for your own.
Pictures that grow up and slow up,then show up just who that you are
an image that's far too inconstant
a side by the sea
aside from you and me and the oceans that we see
there is only a halogen lamp which tramps out these scenes and in the inbetweens of our dreams
I will be forever
the screens on the doors of the more that you want, and the more that we need,
the more we will seed the cameras with film.
and developed could it be
that we see so much more?
Nearly five in the morning but not quite yet,
my coffee is cold, but its my best bet.
The mind is racing the body has crashed,
a dirty spacebar being constantly mashed.
In the distance there is a disgusting cough,
Just one more hour until im off.
Driving this time-warp microbus, tired,
I stop for hitchhikers near Mendocino.
They reject the ride, call it junk.
At the Oaks Cafe I’m the only customer
along with six kids riding tricycles around the tables
while two moms help themselves to beer from the cooler.
The cook who is also the waitress has a star
in her nose and owns one of the kids.
She calls me “Sir” until I make her stop.
I ask if the pie is fresh and she says, “No,
it’s as stale as our coffee. Have a brownie.
They’re, um, spiced.”
Now it's dark as I drive down 101
with headlamps dim as doobie tips, not even aimed right,
some big rig might not even see
before plowing into me
so I follow a camper truck painted in mushrooms
that glow and fade as my lights work and don’t.
The funky camper seems to feel a kinship
and sets a slow rhythm, a two-vehicle conga line
across the Golden Gate.
They are my shield and protector,
the driver with beard and leather hat,
the affectionate woman beside him
glancing back from time to time
between kisses. Chugging slowly home
let it be known
there are loving angels, yet today,
on the hippie highway.