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?
Im sorry you had to walk all the way up
now and then, i wonder:
whats the world gonna be like when
your heart stops pumping with compassion
and reality has lost sight of you
i don't really know but
i think that
I'll never synchronize
to anything that brings me to my last day
when will i have i to lose?
cold creamer in
the steam, slowly deteriates &
before my eyes.
prior to its disappearance
i got a quick and
at the scrauol as it is lifted
into the air
sublime was the way then
in the murky November vapor
I love what i have
and all i have is giving me
hindsight? zero to 100 percent . epiphany.
some call it sin of gluttony
im loving how much i am feeling it
nasty cold december is tempting me
and I'm needing a bit more rest
than the amount you have given me
but i didn't even think about leaving
* i am loving my stay*
not the intellectual property of i but instead cherubs drifting in the past
New York Sun Editor John B. Bogart once said
When a dog bites a man, that is not news because it happens so often. But if a man bites a dog, now that's news.
I think the same could be said of life,
at least, mine anyway.
Don't worry, I'm not going around biting dogs,
but I am living it up as if my life were a story,
because it is, otherwise, I'd be bored.
But, if it were up to my parents,
I'd be working some dead-end desk job
at some marketing firm shilling packaged bread
so I could pay off my student loans,
own a home, get a wife & make enough dinero
to march to retirement, just like everyone else.
Same 'ol story.
Dog bites man.
Isn't it more exciting to read
about a roving poet skipping around
the world from Cairo to Toronto
occasionally stopping to smoke on beaches
all the while meeting people
who seem like they're from a different dimension?
I'm not saying I want a book written about me,
but... if one should be in the works,
I know it'd be a real page turner.
Although, most in my generation has been told
we're all unique and special;
getting participation trophies in baseball
& ribbons for being in the spelling-bee,
yet we're all also told, or rather it's highly suggested we
follow suit & get in line like our parents & grandparents did,
continuing their stories of countless wars and conformity.
Same 'ol story.
Dog bites man.
But nobody will read all these identical stories.
That's part of the problem with people,
only a few are living like they have a story to tell
while most fade away in some gray apathy hell.
Well, my brothers and sisters,
I can only frame it to you this way,
if you had a choice between reading the headlines:
Person Does What they're Told Until Death
Person Dies in a Skydiving Sound Circle Orgy & Bake Sale
which story are you going to read?
Now, if you'll excuse me,
I have to make some magic brownies
because I'm late to my skydiving sexual education lesson.
The first small turds that come out of you after getting stuffed on Indian or Mexican food.
You're thinking, 'Is that it?' and a minute later the Mt. Everest of shit comes out of your ass - requiring two courtesy flushes followed by a plunger.
Alternate meaning: A popular greeting among Jews living in Edwardian Dublin, when they met an the synagogue for morning services ~
'Top of the shitberg to you, Seamus Goldberg.'
'And a top of the shitberg to you, Leopold Bloom.'
For my other Iris pieces, please visT
Happy Dead Mothers Day: Ireland
Sow Dog with a Sweet Tooth Seeks the Puppies’ Privates: Enya's Response to her Craiglist's Personal Ad Response
Passing a lightpost,
Inside your mind,
What dwells here,
Is hard to Say,
Is it happy,
Or the smell of brownies,
From the other day,
I want to find out,
So I stay,
The light then blackens,
I am lost,
Forever comes the day,
Where it lights,
So I can see,
What it is,
I then decide to wander,
the dark caves of my mind,
Then I find a batch of brownies,
so choco-lat-ely kind,
They taste great and wonderful,
and when the last ones down,
The light turns on,
I'm in the oven,
so wonderfully brown.