I've always been drawn to inanimate objects. Call it my ADHD or just general neurological fuckery...but I've always understood objects more than people.

Spoons are safe, plain and simple.

Spoons are spherical devices with no sharp edges and a low probability of hurting others.

I never took them for much more than the pragmatic things they were. Spoons are a means to an end, a vessel of delivery.

Yet for some reason I now see how vital spoons are to my very existence.

Always forgetable, spoons are easy to take for granted due to their immense accessability. Yet, they bring about waves of panic in me when I can't find them...especially when I need them most.

You know those people....you know, the weirdos that collect spoons as trophies and tokens to be revered on shelves. I've always kept spoons on shelves before...pretty...and completely impractical.

Because those spoons were never meant to be ate with, never meant to be used to sustain myself. No....I want a beautifully dented spoon.

A spoon that's been ran through the garbage disposal by accident at 3am....a spoon that's been dropped on the floor and licked by six cats at once.... a spoon that just needs a little polish and a whole lot of love.

All my life...I've eaten with forks, knives, and sometimes even just my fingers. And while I've learned there is a time and place for all utensils in this world....I would be lying if I said I didn't hold a special place in my heart for spoons.

I know not much in this universe...but even in the hours when my brain goes dark and the lights begin to dim I know these three things to be true.

Spoons are safe.
Spoons are sustainable.
Spoons are worthy of love.

And I vow to spend the rest of my days....eating soley from my spoon and I will always be honored to be yours in return.

poetry with two spoons and a salt shaker

~for poet, writer, Lora Lee, unexpectedly~

my symphonic orchestral accompaniment today, musically
unlimited, except by lack of disowning skill, a voice unkempt,
spoons and salt shaker, there in-nate rhythmic opinions off key,
worse, my manly word-smithy, out o’town in June, July, August too?

He, having an affair with my she-muses, left me bereft & berated,
helplessly hoping, the timpani of my words clashing, overrated,
woeful under-something, betraying my need for spicy sriracha,
poetry, sans hamburger helper, no-tasty, even less-than-average

everyone comes rushing in to the kitchen, hearing my to-sky-voices
howling, thinking something wrong, the four instruments rack up a cacophony of rhythmic-less noises, words emerging, to-a-person, they announce, “you’re no Allen Ginsburg, ppp-please not so early next time”

alas, they don’t know the poems are coming hot and heavy, guess I’ll
go outside, serenade them birdies in the trees, the striped bass in the bay, the rabbits procreating/sleeping/eating under their (our) dock

the squirrels know better, have skedaddled to the next-door-neighbor who feeds them classical stuff with a dollop of jazz creme mixed in, but I don’t care, cause I got all day, the rest of my life, to amuse me & you too

to refine the qualitative, to improve my creative, I’ve gone “native” and the rush is the best, the wind beneath my spectacles (haha) drives my rhyming to lowlight heights of prosody, besides seems

everybody has gone to a different beach, so it’s just me and the giant blackbirds cawing holy hell noises, and I’m thinking seriously about baking pie, but they just don’t get the hint, how annoying is that!

harrumph!

BESIDES GOTTA WRITE SOME SERIOUS STUFF...

bone traitor.
Skin viper
Edge Stealer
Ridge maker
Health reflector.
Mirror- you liar!
Rogue on the scale...
Signs that my brain has duped me;
Floating oily in the
Basin
Phantom aches
Blood test lies
Powdery remedies pressed almond abandon all cows
Bean curd body snatching
**** the doctor to get a clue

Girl in pain this isn't me so-
Who the hell are you?

My grandmother longed to be like you
Silver, grey
But useful

"call me spoons"
said "be giving you what you need,"
pause.
like a toddler, sat in high chair
mess face consisting mostly of chocolate pudding, eviscerated green beans, promises
promises
promises
promises "you are one of a kind."
a hand that can't win.
"you're special,"
the kitten no one adopts
"unique"
alone
"perfect"
can't be fixed
can't be fixed
can't be fixed
can't
be
fixed
broken boy sitting at dinner next to cracked mirror metaphor
mess face consisting mostly of bruises and that's it.
bag of frozen peas on the eye
green beans became useless after dad ran out
spoons across the dining room
no words; body language says enough
"i failed you."
said
"couldn't give you what you need."
"what you need."
what you need
what you need
what you need? you.
you need you.
you need you.
spoons at the end of a rope
black eyes toddler can't see
blind reach
spoons isn't there
spoons isn't there
no object permanence means that while spoons aren't around, baby can't get what it needs.
object permanence means in 1997 when you cheated again and she found out
that there was no running away this time that you in this state will exist in abject permanence.
she can never unsee
bent spoons stained with street glue
black tar lungs and inability to breathe
mess face consisting mostly of
i'm sorry
i'm sorry
i'm sorry