hot butter strolls down my face
and rolls down my nose
dribbles down my chin
and spatters the floor
the lustrous linoleum
i cry tears of sugar
it tastes much too sweet
as they mix with my thoughts
and pour into the cracked bowl
the jaded green memory
my hands are matted with white
and caked with delight
but it's a less-than-pleasant mess
i've used too much
it called for just a teaspoon
how to make ghee
how to to clarify,
place the salt free butter in pan
turn the heat on very low,
then just listen............
then sounds of drizzling rain for a while grow
to a creek starting to flow
then hear the steady rain pelting on leaves
(if it starts to sound like popcorn,
maybe turn the heat down),
then let the rain keep
it gets quieter
haven't done so in awhile, love making ghee
Homemade spread on crumpets and toast
A thin slice of me, wherever you go..
Bed & Breakfasts at the Chateau Marmont..
Where you'd write me letters in an ivory font..
Your old soul haunts through the strings of my guitar,
I was a groupie, while you brought the music..
Drugs, Loneliness, Deception & no through roads..
Isn't that just the way it was supposed to go...
I hear your music sometimes, on the radio..
a stairway to heaven is just as close...
Sorry that you only thought of me
as a string you played, yours sincerely....
About a romance between a musician and a waitress. When the musician becomes a household name he starts to see her as a groupie rather than his girlfriend.. as he dives into a life of substance abuse and rock star virtues..
If I want
flour, water, yeast, and churned cream
I’ll consult a dictionary;
If I want
a loaf of raised hopes which she spread thinly with the charity of others
I’ll read a novel;
If I want
unleavened lassitude, greasy with the guilt of neglected privilege
I’ll write poetry.
‘Always be a poet, even in prose.’
- Charles Baudelaire
Sometimes I lie
When people ask me those questions
Like “who inspires you the most”
Or “what is the most influential thing to have happened in your life”
Sometimes I talk about
Women in science
Or growing up adopted
Or being a struggling reader when I was in third grade
I never talk about my mom
I never talk about feeling like I had missing pieces
Not just in my heart but in my mind
Like someone pulled out the naughty things
The bad things
Leaving me with only leftovers.
When people ask me for my best story
Sometimes I talk about how
I faked a peanut allergy
And how a boy stabbed me with an epipen when I ate a peanut butter malt in front of him
Thinking he was saving my life.
I usually avoid the part
About me wishing that those drugs were lethal
That an epipen could end it all.
I find small talk to be so hard
Because there aren’t enough good bits inside me
To make it through a conversation.
If you see me
Can you just do that thing
Where we make eye contact and nod slightly
Smiling sometimes and not stopping.
I don’t have anything
Truthful left to say.
Open to constructive criticism.
sky dining table.
much loaves of bread, butter heaps;
windswept the leftover.
always leave room for me
in the margarines of your life
Sorry if it seems a little pat
Ready to explode
Wait a minute, don’t leave me
Things will get butter
you know what's creepy about humpty dumpty? they never said it was an egg
don't you dare sounds normal, but do not you dare sounds weird
envelopes are strange. its like here's a paper wrapped in paper that i sealed with my saliva
butter is food lotion
when you wait for the waiter you are the waiter
How much pain do I have go though until giving up is okay?
within brown skin
white-lies & kin
...rays of hope
bask in futured
lumination of all