Losing against ideaphoria?
Let’s see
John Jacob Jingleheimer *******br>And Roommate Louisa, Tuesday around 11:15 am,
After one chug of cold coffee.
New dog enters, socks are found,
Ski socks. It’s July.
John Jacob to the Muffin Man tune, pastries baked,
along with other assorted goods,
An empty box of Rice Krispies.
***** on the floor, clean in hamper, still hot.
I’ll wait till they’re cold and wrinkled to put away,
You’re welcome, robot.
Chat GPT opened in tabs, unwelcomed, but my relationship with my father is still
Complicated, so it will just sit there, no fun for you, robot.
Spam calls are all I get these days, a few texts.
Campaigns for creamier milk, softer abuse, rougher hair care routines.
You know what they say, Extra Creamy Means Endless Possibilities.
Take that one apart: Invisible lattes? Extraterrestrial cappuccinos?
Slavic milk pudding.
Gibberish. What a mindless rescue.

Waiting is stupid
Wanting is dumb
I wish when I was little
I ****** on my thumb

Maybe my kid will
She'll be beautiful
Already here, in my tummy
Not to say I’m with child
But she's one good **** away
From the light of day

I’ll teach her colors to name
And birds to watch
Summer comes and goes
But salmon mostly try to swim upstream
I'll tell her that too, in case
She wants to get matching tattoos.

For the record, mine is a trout
His name is Hawkeye though he really only has
a good view of the middle of my ribcage
(Forgot to tell the artist to face him towards the outside world,
Now he is forever looking inside of me.
Forever watching over my children and my liver,
Keeping tabs on them for the day I give life or get death.)

Wet rings slipping from fingers
T-shirt's heavy and stuck, down with womanhood
We’re boy, carefree, simple,  
Laughs natural to the eye
Silhouettes blocky, unlike a glass of wine
Unlike a kind of fruit
If only clothes could free us
Draped by wet silkworms holding up our insides
The summer rain holding us free
And setting us captive.

Listening to Pink Floyd after getting in the wrong uber: In the Flesh?
What a silly thing, the places we go and the people we see
We resolve to drink more, exercise less, complain to all high heavens
Flip it and pound it from behind
That'll teach us

I’m a Kentucky girl, grass for dinner, if you're lucky I'll let you ride my tractor, might trade it for a truck, much more useful in the streets when there are stop signs. No stoplights, though, much less fancy and tame we work with the earth we were given, I eat grass for breakfast too.

Being country, I'm told to breastfeed, even boys who aren’t mine I resist most of the time but they're hard to fend off with their strong belts and southern charm. Not to mention the belts have charms. You’re a country boy, I've got no clue if I like boys, they make me stiff and worried, so sometimes I drink a lot to loosen so they see me like the southern bell that maybe I could be but am not at the present moment.

One thing every girl is known for around here, I am no exception, is our love for carmanthamums. Now, you might be thinking to yourself, I have never heard of such a flower, well you’ve clearly never been to The Sugar Baby Saloon. Behind a bunch of tables and chairs lying about outside, is a patch of dirt and grass where these carmanthamums are born.

Do you get the metaphor I’m trying to make? I am a country girl the same way these flowers are a country girl’s favorite flower; they don’t actually exist, and I really truly never claimed to be a country girl just the same as you never claimed to be someone’s mother! Mind your business.

To feel the side of a cowboy boot on my hip
Was something quite unexpected, too
Caught up in lines and circles to notice before
But a stray cat was their owner!  

He looked at me with a pearly black eye and  
Bid me a due, nodding low into the  
Darkest part of this Adams apple, and here
I was thinking Felidae didn't have them!

As strange as it was, I paid him no mind
Carried by wavy guitars and longing fiddles
My hip sunk again, this time only with the
Sound of five hundred animals clapping along.  

I turn to my left, to look at my partner, but he’s  
seemingly replaced by a crowd of menagerie workers.
In the corner of my eye, a familiar smile,
I yell to a camel, “Why, You’re Not My Boyfriend!”

My mom got a bottle of Champane in the mail from her
Best friend from college. Friend just found out her husband
Of twenty-five years was ******* other people the entire
Time.  

My dad just gave me an AI generated list of ways to stay
Safe in Thailand from the monkeys. Who knew it was all
That serious? I do now, and will be sure to carry around
A stick.  

My ex-boyfriend held my head under the covers of my  
Blue checkered bed and farted. It stunk super badly but
Made me feel loved the same way getting tickled does.
Annoying.  

My best friend’s sister got their grandmothers cat when
She died, so now my best friend has a child, literally. She  
Loves his eyes and carries him up the stairs into her own
Bed.  

My people and I give and discover the great mysteries  
Together all at different levels and times of understanding
And I get to grasp at the feeling of love with the people I  
Love (what a special thing).