When the baker bakes the baked bakery bakes,
Do they also bake the recipe required?
What's the recipe for a poem?
Does the poet pen the poetical poem poetically to pen their pretty poems?
What temperature do you bake ink-
To make it a bestseller?
How much baking powder do you bake into a page
To perfect its pagey turny pageiness?
What kinda poem crust does a poem become encrusted in?
Should it crumble?
Should it rhyme?
Should it cry a melodrama so dramatic that drama llamas like “that too much drama!”?
Wait,
Where did drama llama come into this?
Who else is in the kitchen cooking this poem pie?
Is the poem pie perfectly pied in its drama crust?
WAIT-
we forgot about the filling…
What do you put in a poetical poem pie?
Should I peach the pied poem?
The peaches plumpy peachy smile?
(i’m not sure how the drama llama feels about that)
Should I fill the peachy pied poem with orange and lemon citrus ?
A little bit of snazz to the snazzy apple pie.
Crap, I forgot the apples as well.
Well now my peachy pied lemony apple-orange poem is too long!
And i still don’t know what temperature to torch these thoughts at!
Well the pied piper pipes in that maybe my peachy pied poem needs some pepper
To pipe the spice to pied poem levels!
But lemony apple-orange peachy pied poems with pepper seems a touch peppery for simple pied poems to be.
But who ever said a poem pied can’t have spice and everything nice WITH lemon and apple and orange and peachy fuzzy smiles?
So,
My peachy peppered pied lemony appley orangy poemy is piping hot to boot.
Now i just need to figure out whos gonna eat the **** thing.

As we finish dressing the table, the room is dizzy with aromas
and the turkey teases with a golden, honey-like translucence.

Candles, nestled in poinsettia settings, provide a flickering, golden,
almost magical light that’s refracted in windows, crystal and white tablecloth.

I hear Leeza nearby, swinging the living room with laughter. Everyone is giddy from drink, mouth watering hunger and near impossible expectations.

I wish you all a safe, Happy, Thanksgiving.

i wish you good luck and a cup of tea
and maybe that you’d think of me
in the morning between that chicago breeze
you’ve become so fond of.
i wish you warmth and a warm pastry
in hopes that you stay sweet after 9am classes
and glasses that refuse to sit still on your nose.
i wish you love and a bowl of soup
so that you’d give me the inside scoop
on the perils of higher education and
one of those end of the day smiles.
but for now i wish you rest and glass of milk.

I’m triple smoked.
Inundated in a cloud.
Guda, salmon, and a cigarette.
Lay me down. Come be with me.
Something simple. I need warm skin, nothing put in.
It’s slow now. Even with death in my lips, lungs, and mouth. Violation at my fingertips, comfort at your hips.
This cuddle in mist, as sand slips from ancestral vas. Can’t be more tonic. Not even a clean breath from my stacked haze does compare.
Your presence is softer than a compliment, warmer than a gaze fair.
Your hair on my chest or my head on your breast seal a lair.
We swap the feeding hand.
Weakness is a virtue. A face unmasked in rare.
Among a stage smooth, soft skin, slick like ice, warm like loath.
Sticky with sweat, and with a low foggy stench that creeps in your nose. A familiar one, an intimate one.
A vapor that flames when you care.
This addictive fetor to foe.
Of nicotine, sweat, and lewdness.
Is a muse to you and I.
That cigarette set the mood, and you set me in.

I am in my room
Surrounded by food and drinks
A camera in front of me
An outline of a monologue in my head
40 pieces of Chicken Nuggets
Two large fries
A large coke
And three Big Macs
I shall take my time, there's so much to discuss
Infinite Jest and the Culture Industry
American drugs and entertainment
Its sedative effect on the characters
I start with a Big Mac
Layers of soft bread
The salty cheese and patty enticing my taste buds
Between every few bites
I take a few fries at a time
Soft and sluggish, a slight saltiness on my tongue
How it's mashed by my teeth in mutual consent
Hal Incandenza, Katherine Gompert
Their use of Marijuana in secret
It's effects on the body and their addiction
A garden of salt splashed by the sweet rain of Coke
Flowing down my throat
I shall only worship a God who knew how to cook
And to enjoy a great meal
The medical Attaché's eyes
Gazing perpetually into the screen
Expiring in catatonic bliss
After the Big Macs
I attack the Nuggets
The beautiful effect of its skin
And the barbecue sauce in my mouth
The essence of chicken leaving my mouth wanting more
One by one
With more fries in between
More Coke dances in my mouth
Leaving a suave sensation in my throat
The years named after products
Year of the Whopper
Year of the Depend Adult Undergarment
Year of the Trial size Dove Bar
Mario Incandenza and Gerhardt *******br>"Life's endless war against the self you cannot live without"
And the tennis
The endless tennis, the dancing chess of the athletic body
It takes about an hour and a half
A time of bliss
Where I can please my YouTube audience
Where I don't need to think
And the only body part that needs to work
Is my mouth

bile splatters the wall
dreadful peace fills my veins at once
it’s all going to be okay
the worst of this is tooth decay
i can’t rely on others to know better

how can something so disgusting feel this pure
why does this burn in my throat bring me closer to perfection
tears feel valid only when they’re forced
it all feels so wrong
but i can’t let go of this control
peace can’t stay here anymore

but don’t leave me like everyone else has
i’ve given up on everything
i can’t face the world without you
tears shed just for you to stay
please lie in this filth next to me
don’t flee like the rest
there’s no other way i can cope today

the mirror leaves me unrecognizable
the reflection is a lie
you can’t let this happen
here to destroy me
the progress we’ve made
i can’t become an embarrassment once again
i brought you here to take on some of this grief

lonely times in the bathroom
the tile still feels so cold
warmth you gave feels like daggers in my stomach
like bugs trying to escape
i didn’t eat the food
it’s eating away at me

When I heard your jazz improvisation
I craved the taste of a fine confection
Your synths were the flame that roasted my heart
Drunk with the notes, your sweet wine collection

I lift up my thoughts
I lift up my voice
I see so much
That makes me rejoice

The sky - the trees
The food on my plate
The freedom I know
To choose my fate

The air I breathe
My mind - my choice
I see every day
As cause to rejoice

She was his ivory button down shirt
Fresh from the dry cleaners
Soft and gleaming.

And he drank red wine at dinner
Pouring it hastily
Letting it slosh and splash.

Bringing it up to his mouth
He lets it seep past his lips
Dribble down his chin.

If he stains her it’s ok
He will throw her out
And get a new shirt.

A silken drop nectar refined,
Delicious, smooth, it’s taste sublime,
Worshipped and revered in times of old,
Bacchus it’s God, his hand-maidens bold.

The Romans swilled, the Greeks imbibed,
The British drank, the French prescribed.
The Church just called it Christ’s own blood,
Believers flowed as if by flood.

This luscious liquid as fine as honey,
The fountain not of youth but merely money,
Small price to pay for so much fun,
When it can turn a dowdy day to sun.

Clinking glasses moments shared,
The more imbibed the more is bared,
Food important or so they claim,
When as a smokescreen its main aim.

All that said let me be clear
There’s a reason we choose wine not beer,
Wine is healthy, helps the heart,
Beer is fattening and so ****.