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The Napkin Poet Oct 2017
I hope you know
I've given myself more to you
Than I

You were reciprocating
My deepest of ghosts
Loving and creating
Whatta hoax

What could I do
To love myself as much as you
The Napkin Poet Oct 2017
Sike me out.
Spit on my toes.
Look for others.

No shame.
Hurricanes are natural.
No apologies in nature.

Right over my head.
Flung into my dreams.
But not all dreams are tangible.

Like you.

Sike me out.
Spit on me.
Make me feel you.
The Napkin Poet Oct 2017
Almsot everywhere
All walls
All conversations
To be appericated
Not understood
Loved for who they saw
Who they made me to be
How I fit into perspective
No I, I am not
Almost nowhere
The Napkin Poet Oct 2017
I  grabbed the teal towel
Your naked body had been wrapped in last
Used your slimming bar of soap
Conditioned my armpit hair like you do

I even swirled shampoo in the palm of my hand
Because today is my first shower without you

My back will not get washed
Your wash cloths will stay folded
Still on top of the glazed porcelain
And only one lofa will get sudsy and wet

I think i'd rather ferment in my own sweat
The Napkin Poet Jan 2017
I still look for her in you.
You told me you could dig blue,
I said, "I dig you."
We shouted "Boo!" and "Happy Holidays" too.

But somehow I felt she was still in my queue.
What a picture for myself I drew,
Always focusing on the morning dew.
Labeling my fantasies as true,

Still figuring out how to shake her glue.
You were new, so I thought I’d be able to see you through.
The Napkin Poet Dec 2016
I have got a soft spot for you.
It is icky and full of goo.
I imagine it is a certain type of blue.
Maybe of a lighter hue.
My insides have caught the flu.
And my heart took up a coup.
You became my guru.
Allowing sentiment to shine through.
My cynicism was able to subdue.
Something like magic, almost voodoo.
I hope I'm not too taboo.
Darling, I just love you.
The Napkin Poet Dec 2016
To make wine,
Grapes are crushed then poured into fermentation tanks.
Once fermentation begins, the grape skins are pushed to the surface by carbon dioxide gases released in the fermentation process.

I am the only fruit who has the necessary acids to make natural, stable wine.
My tannins add a bitterness and astringency,
But I must be picked at the right time.
My acidity and sweetness must be zen in balance.
The right ones are sorted through, but not all of us make the cut.
Unable to be served as sweet wine, too bitter.
Some more sweet, not bitter enough.
Simply picked at the wrong time, their peak unwanted, forgotten.

After being sorted we are destemmed and crushed.
Our roots ripped from us, dignity stomped upon.
For years, it was done manually, by foot.
Now, preformed mechanically, systematically.
But hey!
"Mechanical pressing has brought tremendous sanitary gains as well as increased the longevity and quality of wine."

Grape abuse continues, white wine grapes are quickly crushed.
Why do you ask?
To keep unwanted "color" from leeching into the wine.
But red wine,
Red wine is left in contact with it's skin, forced to acquire more color, more flavor and additional tannins.

After being sorted and crushed, I naturally ferment with in six to twelve hours.
This continues until all my sugar,
Is converted to alcohol.
To produce dry, wine.

The final stage is aging.
I am bottled with a cork,
Put on a shelf.
And ironically,
await my optimal fruitfulness.
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