I flip the pancake over like  
you've flipped my love for you.  
The skillet hot with butter  
and a splash of oil.  
The batter becomes thick,  
flattening on one side
raising before falling.  
The edges becoming crisp,  
a mix of heart and soul  
and all the simple, consistent
consideration in between.  

When I am alone, I can make  
the perfect pancake.  
But when someone is watching,  
I flip the batter too soon.  
The circle is broken, and the batter  
bakes unevenly on the skillet.  
It still doesn't take away from the taste.  
Sometimes, I still feel like a fool.  

All it takes is the heat of reciprocation
whether the spatula is cheap or  
expensive.  
I eat it anyway,  
just like you've flipped my love for you.  
I brought a better spatula.  
I'll drizzle you in butter and syrup,
and eat until I can't anymore.

Since a bitter beverage goes best
With sweeter courses, adding zest,
So many breakfast dishes
Considered most delicious
Are sugary bases syrup dressed.

perhaps it is apt
the first pancake
is always
a disappointment
stodgy
anaemic
without that light
crisped perfection
we've come to expect
it is undercooked
typically
as the ideal
frying time
is gauged
incorrectly at first
it will be
plated with
accompanying pleas
for forgiveness
and absolution
but as penance
someone has to
suffer this
pariah's offering
with each mouthful
comes thoughts
of apology
of atonement
of promises
it will be better
next time

I never thought it would be you.
With your brown eyes surrounding like mountains.
Arms always big and warm and hugging someone.
She didn’t deserve you, you know?
Now you’re off somewhere,
On the “greatest adventure of all”.
You were like him the more i think about it.

I was always a little mean to you
I guess i really didn’t understand
I was jealous of your friends, your smile
I thought it was just a pencil
Now it’s a blade and you’re gone
It doesn’t feel real

I remember you at my door
On the phone
And in the kitchen
Alone
With her
Laughing hugging kissing
She loved you

You got better
Stronger.
Daft punk sleeps now.
Because of you.
I complained.
You were so loved
But there must’ve been worms
Under your skin

That night was the worst night
Wasn’t it?
It’s the demons’ fault, whoever they are
They took my friend
I lost you once, now again
But there is no redemption
No hope
No light

You had an ****** flip phone
The background was a picture of your christ
Reaching out his hand through water
You wanted to believe in something so badly
It wasn’t enough i suppose
And that’s the sad truth of everything i know

But you hurt everyone so badly
Did you realize
The giant hole you’d leave
The scars on your skin now on mine
Where did you go
Did you finally go home

You were always a little selfish
But this is the most selfish act of all
Leaving us here while you move on
Now i’m scared
Everyone i know
Everyone i love
Could die
At any time
And i can’t do anything about it

The perfect amount of salt
It dissolves in my mouth
Melting on my pancakes
Complimented with sugary flakes
Dipped in syrupy lakes
My fruit salad with grapes
Bananas and apples too
It's too yummy to be true
While butter is still melting
I dig in, it tastes overwhelming
~12/5/21

Were the pancakes,
       and corona

is the syrup

lets spread it like
we eating out..

And were lungs are burnt...

I'll never eat out...


But ill wash my hands
           every time your
  cough pops up...

I see love.
But I think they are just married.
With their piled plates and their.
Pancakes there.
Squeezed faces and head flicks.
Head flicks away from the groom's groomed hand.
This doesn't bode well.
Despite the pancakes.
In the value hotel with their soft luggage.
Eating pancakes as they check their phones.

IHOB
IHOP

The alarm got us up before the sun fully awoke
we pulled our sleepy bodies out of bed
got on our grungies not even fixing coffee yet,
got our gear together in the pickup
and headed for the peninsula
where we hoped the sand bass would be schooling,
searching for some breakfast of worms or flashy things that looked to them like food.
If we were lucky we hooked a few which we would cook later
or save for the freezers back home.

When we got back to the campground
we’d comb our hair brush our teeth and head into town
for Pat’s Cafe who served the best biscuits, eggs, hashbrowns, and pancakes in the region
and if we were lucky Pat herself with her long black hair and **** lips
and substantial hips
would stop by and in her Texas twang and charm
she’d tell us about their farm
we’d speak of our wives
and some of the small details of our lives
and how we loved that large beautiful body
that sparkled and sang to us each spring
and how we savored dipping into Lake Whitney.

In late afternoon we would laze about the RV
discussing Theilhard and Jesus and Charlie
he’d speak of Bob Wills and we’d share
trying to make sense of the spirits there
and how they made us leap and soar.
We spoke in sync and explored
lines of novels, and fascinating texts
that made us eager to discover what was next
that would make us laugh or shed tears
of all those memorable years
we’d been brothers
afloat of the same waters
becoming men who hoped to make their mark
spark something good in the minds
of other seekers who also drank wines
fermented in corridors of learning
who had the same yearning
for knowledge and truth
embedded early and deeply in our youth.