"cucumbers" poems
It was the time of my Auntie Bee summers
I was small then
She had a parakeet that landed on my head
and a bathtub too
with water so deep!
and legs and claws!
**** thing nearly chased me down the stairs!
She lived in slumbery Windsor Locks
where bugs hung-out in the haze
of teenage August
I played in the tall weeds
with a shoeless Italian boy
who ate tomatoes like apples
and cucumbers right off the vine!
He was ***** free and foreign!
We played— reckless, abandoned
behind the gas pump, under the tractor, in the barn
and through the endless fields
I didn’t know....
His name was Tony
I ate pizza with him—the first time
At Auntie Bee’s I had to go to bed at eight
but I could watch night flowers
bloom on wallpaper
She came in to say good night
slippered, shadowy, night dress slightly open
and I peeped her *******
like Tony’s cucumbers!
I had never seen my mother’s wonders....
Night spread its wings from the old fan—
a bird of tireless exhaustion
whipped, whipped, whipped to death in its cage
tireless exhaustion
tic-tocking in time to a wind-up clock
stretched out on the whine
of the overland trucks
Route Five through the night of an open window
In the grape arbor below—
tremulous incessant
crickets crickets crickets
tremulous incessant—insides of a child
a summer child
not yet ready for the fall of answers
Auntie Bee had a daughter—Maureen
I followed her everywhere I could
I was small then--
do anything for a stick of Juicy Fruit
I followed Maureen through my dreams
of being sixteen
and woke to Peggy’s “Fever”
while she tied her sneakers
against the mattress by my head
I followed Maureen (in my mind)
tanned and bandanned
to work in the fields of shade tobacco
with all those Puerto Rican boys!
She knew where she was going!
I was small then
...do anything for a stick of gum
“Mauney! Mauney! Mauney!”
...through the goldenrod of roadside
through the smell of oil that damped the dust
I followed Maureen’s white shorts
and chestnut hair...to the corner store
I followed the way the boys smiled
the way the screen door slammed
on her bright behind
the way her lips taunted and took
the coke-bottle’s green
I followed Maureen
I swear, I tried for hours to get that right!
Must have been Peggy Lee’s “Fever”
Maureen ties her sneakers in my face
Flaunts her years above my head
She has that look—
“We kids don’t know nothin”
(Little turds” that we be)
…followin’ Maureen
through the goldenrod of roadside
tic-tockin’, beboppin’
“Fever— in the morning
Fever all through the night….”
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 11:30 PM UTC
Slipping into my apron,
Hungry in body and soul
Humming as a song played...
I grab my knife and chop-board
Unsure of what to cook
Strange inspirations possess me
Filling me with *****
My kitchen becomes a stage
In my hands- a plectrum and fretboard
Silver utensils- my live audience!*
As I play divine recipes
Strumming master acoustic chords
Chopping fresh, colorful vegetables.
I dash to the remote,
Punch "Repeat" and dash back on stage
Landing on E♭ minor,
Scaling impossible notes,
I slice with razor-sharp plectrum,
On onions and other root chords
My fret arrayed with colors,
Of spinach, lettuce, tomatoes
Carrots, potatoes, olives
Pepper, cabbage and cucumbers.
I hear a thunder of applause
As I ignite the cooker
Butter sizzling in the hot pan
A staccato of sharp notes,
*Ready to modulate innocent vegetables
Through spicy aromatic crescendos!*
I fight hard to suppress a sneeze,
No sneezing on-stage! Unprofessional!
Multitudes of seconds rush by and…
Voila!!!
I stand for a moment
Salivating, awed at my bravura!
Wishing I could hang it on my wall
Tis beautiful like art
But I can’t eat this cake and have it!
So I dig in…
Heaven and earth kiss for a moment
L U S C I O U S!!!
Luckily, it didn’t taste nauseating
Like my last attempt.
No time for ceremonies
I munch from pan to mouth
Pausing for what may pass for a prayer,
I relish every bite!
Not that I’m a foodie or something,
But nothing beats this combo-
Of good food and soul music.
And yes,
*Music is indeed food to the soul!*
I devour, in view- the next meal...
© Raphael Uzor
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
THE RETURN OF DUM MAARO DUM
( for Driftwood )
She dances
upon her tippy toes
upon my toes
whirling 'bout the room
to DUM MAARO DUM
she my little Bollywood queen.
"Again...again....again!" she squeals
mad with childish delight.
Asha sings to us
and we...dance!
Sunlight throws itself
at our feet.
We dance upon it.
Summer gasps
holds its breath.
There is nothing but
the music....and us!
She is all
of three
screaming: "Bollywood me...Bollywood me!"
"This...won't....get the dinner done!"
screams Mum above the fun.
The record screeches
and scratches ...ouch...off!
I cut cucumbers
into tiny tiny pieces.
Tilly washes spinach and lettuce.
But when Mum
goes to answer the phone
it's her best chum
she will be hours
we sneak Asha
back into the kitchen.
The return of. . .
"Dum maaro dum
Mit jaaye gham
Bolo subaha shaam
Hare Krishna hare Krishna hare Krishna Hare Ram!"
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 2:41 PM UTC
you can hear the echo via Zizek the Slovak,
well, attire me in slavic myths and
i'll be mumbling purrs in mud too
for a helium bubble to become a comedian,
i know a jittery ******* addiction
when i see one...
if one thing the catholic schooling system
taught me was how to avoid
sniffing glue and how to recognise
a Freudian apostle - still, with all
the hippy **** you'd think
sniffing glue was what Ukrainian existentialism
prescribed with paracetamol,
catholic education just said: no no.
**** me it's the late 90s and we're talking
post-Chernobyl antics...
but that's how i see the left, leftist politics,
the right
utilises prefixes and suffixes in the
old stance of simple pre- pro-
anti-
qua-
-so so...
the left? oh they're right in there...
their prefixes are
Marxist-
liberal-
Hegelian-
whatnot...
they don't
use abstract prefixes,
their prefixes
are concrete,
they want the porridge in their mouth
to ensure a slur that never comes,
among a range of onomatopoeias they argue
from the perspective of the hushed and ushered crowd,
via one observation: Stalin clapped after a speech
to enjoin with the crowd, a real big brother,
****** never clapped, a sitting-duck method;
i'm not advocating, but by a proxy placebo dynamo
experimenting, it's called experimenting with
thought rather than practising with will,
former no chance of footstep evaluation for
cult status imitable -
the left intellectual
has no rubric of thought concerning to and fro -
it has to be concrete layered and a shut off
perfect architecture without fault -
it can't be what it is -
con-
has to be conservative
pro-
has to be socialist
you once said legitimate
transparency - but you didn't say legislation -
well, the left understood it as legislation,
the right too wanted legitimate transparency -
the green party said we could have neither
but could have the replanting of a thousand
oak trees with a Robin Hood placard on the first
oak tree replanted in Sherwood Forest...
b. ~ d. ~... shot ~100 bent arrows into a bullseye -
hurrah! hurrah! maid marian lost her virginity
too! to a broomstick rather than maradona's
fingernail toothpick!
at an essex market the cockney shouts (out of
place): *** yer courgettes! *** yer courgettes!
ta fa a pudding! ta fa a pudding!
*** yer cucumbers! tooth firth 'un!
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
Wimbledon’s playing on the TV in the living room. Dad and I are watching on the sofa.
In the kitchen, Mom cuts carrots and cucumbers with a long blade. She slices the vegetables one by one. Orange pieces. Green pieces.
I glance over Mom chops up the carrots and cucumbers without a cutting board, taking each long carrot and cucumber and slices it with precision, as though she’s a professional like the film with Natalie Portman and Jean Reno.
But she’s not a little girl and she’s not a Frenchman. She’s like a mix-in-between, like the asphalt in our driveway and the grass sprouting in between the cracks.
Dad is a computer engineer. He used to be an artist. Used to study technical drawing in a university in Saigon.
He met mom when he was working on a play. She was the lead actress. Shakespeare had said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.”
He’s right, but right now I can’t tell what act I’m in. Dad focuses on the TV. Watches Federer and Djokovic, his eyes, darting from left to right like the mood of a young boy that crosses back and forth from light to dark, and back again.
Blade in hand, Mom makes longer and deeper cuts across the cucumber, cutting away the skin, leaving deep cuts in the vegetable. Dad turns his head towards her, his neck cracking like the forehand swung by Federer.
He clears his throat, softly, soft as gas leaking out from a stovetop from a studio apartment, like the scene in Fight Club, a match about to be struck.
Mom sets the blade down on the table, and bites her lip. Her nostrils flare. I press down on the couch arm, and stand up, my head bent, my eyes wandering to the doorway.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 11:29 PM UTC
At a hermitage:
A cool fall night--
getting dinner, we peeled
eggplants, cucumbers.
3.8k
What I managed to regrow,
You stomped on.
You waltzed into my garden
Like you had grown the whole place yourself,
Your nose in the air.
You looked at my carrots and scoffed,
My cucumbers you mocked
And you thought my garden gnomes were ******
And I let you,
Because you acted like you knew so much about gardening
You said the caterpillars would help my leaves
And the crows would **** out my rotten veggies
But those cruel birds have just been eating away at my prize-winning squash,
and the tomato worms....well, they ate all my ripe tomatoes.
You said you'd help me tend to my garden
But you rarely make it over
And when you do, you throw a shovel in my face
And tell me to get on my knees.
You watch while I ****
And talk about the grandeur of the flowers next door.
And I wonder as I wipe my brow,
What I ever thought I needed you for?
And why you ever came over in the first place,
Since you obviously prefer pretty colors to nutrition
And you must have had some notion that I would one day realize,
That you've never kept anything alive in your life,
And you don't even have a yard.
Nov 9, 2010
Nov 9, 2010 at 6:55 PM UTC
I hate pickles
neon green colored cubes of sweet bitter vinegar fermented cucumbers that have lost their identity in green no. 3
and dealing with oblivion seems like
(green pickles)
......disgusting and
it makes me lose my identity.
so please give me adrenaline for
whenever my heart sinks
so I don't fall into oblivion
sans-identity
like pickles
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
I just tasted a memory. BANG . slapped me on the tongue like a freight train out of a rip in space and time,
of garlic and peppercorn chicken with jasmine rice , a clear broth and fresh cucumbers, a wedge of lime and chrysanthemum tea.
oh .. my mouth , how could you spring this on me .. when i'm so far from the motherland...
then they come thick and fast -
thai iced tea , thai iced coco , thai iced coffee , thai lime soda ..
papaya salad with sticky rice , Mango and coconut sticky rice , Roti with condensed milk and banana , coconut ice cream in a white bread bun with coconut sticky rice and peanuts, fresh fruits of rambutan and mangosteen for 30 baht a kilo......oh.....oh...who could forget the fried flat noodles , or the fried pastry's called explosion ***** oh... oh my
heart..... my heart...... my stomach... calls out to you , oh glorious green curry with roti , morning congee with little pork ***** and soy sauce..... come to me my dumpling and noodles let me lick the chillies and sugar off my lips , may i taste once more
the conception of such marvelous treats , unfathomable to the western palate , little sweet corn and flour discs cooked on a special cooker over a real fire...dried squid sold on the back of a bicycle , fried garlic with sticky rice , a pink soup !
I just had a taste memory
****
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 12:22 PM UTC
If Little Debbie was real, I'd never be sad.
Her very presence could rid this world of all things bad.
Her perfect cakes drive away responsibility
By forcing me to focus on my bowel irritability.
If Little Debbie was real, I'd never feel lonely.
I think her stuff makes any place more homely.
With every bite I take, I gain a pound
But that's alright because no one's around
To see me for the lonely fat girl that I am
Who often mixes cucumbers with bananas and jam
Surely it's not just me who awakes and thinks
"Forget the eagle! Little Debbie is our national link."
For I believe there is nothing more patriotic
Than relying on something that's abiotic.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC
break the poem
open like a pomegranate
spill the seeds
squeeze the juice
and
**** the flesh
when we were kids
we played in
mother's garden:
carrots, strawberries,
rhubarb, tomatoes,
plums, raspberries,
cucumbers, pumpkins,
green beans, watermelon,
onions, potatoes
and
a goldfish named Pierre
he died after
my parents
cleaned his tank
and didn't rinse
it properly
done in by soap--
life can be such a
fragile thing sometimes
we buried him
in the garden
and marked his
grave with a
smooth river stone
one summer
we picked a great
big watermelon
from its dirt nap;
heavy as a bowling
ball and green
as a cat's eye
we heaved it onto
the picnic table
and carved it into
smaller
and smaller wedges
until each one
of us was holding
our very own
chunk of melon
everyone dug in
after admiring their
piece for a moment;
eating it with
their eyes
before their
mouths
but as I went
to bite into mine
I noticed a seed
in the way
so I peeled
at it to free it
and as I fingered
the dripping flesh
of the fruit
the 'seed' revealed
itself to be
not a seed at all
but the eye
of a goldfish
staring back at me
lodged in the melon
in its death throws
gasping for
breath in the
open air
its mouth opening
and closing like
it had a secret
to tell
I stood there
in stupefaction
when suddenly
it slipped free of
its womb
and landed in the grass
behind me
but when I
turned around
to retrieve it
I couldn't find it
there was no goldfish
anywhere in that yard
I checked under
my feet
under the picnic table--
under other people's
feet--nothing
"what are you
looking for?" someone
asked
"nothing," I said,
because who
would've believed it
anyway?--I'm not
even sure if I did--
"just thought I dropped
something."
I stood back up
feeling different
about the world--
like the mystery
ran deeper than any
of us realize--
looked at
my hunk of fruit
and discovered
I wasn't hungry
anymore
so I put
it down on
the picnic table
and walked over
to Pierre's grave
there, underneath
that river stone,
was a watermelon seed
just beginning to
sprout
I smiled in
bewilderment
and gently covered
it with fresh soil
moving the stone
a few centimeters
off the sprouting seed
'Pierre, the watermelon
fish,' I thought--
wiping the dirt
from my hands--
'I wonder what
death has in store
for me?'
Mar 13, 2021
Mar 13, 2021 at 9:45 AM UTC
I.
A louse in a house
or a mouse on a blouse.
A bell that goes ****
or a gong that goes ****
A gap on a map
or a cap on your lap.
A drink in the sink
or an ink that stinks.
A spleen on a screen
or a queen who is green.
A bow in the snow
or a crow that glows.
II.
A wash or a whip,
a lip or a lop,
a top or a tip,
a car or afar,
a bar or a war,
a door or a snore,
a bore or a nail,
a flail or a whale,
a run or a bun,
a sun or a moon,
a spoon or a bus,
a fuss or a sigh,
a cry or a cheer,
a fear or a smile,
a while or a pen,
a den or a cat,
a mat or a hat,
a bat or a glass,
a vase or a weight,
a mate or a fork,
a cork or a mop,
a cop or a stop.
III.
Apples and artichokes, ants and antelopes,
bees and beers, books and brains,
cucumbers and chimneys, ***** and coats,
dogs and drains, dots and dominoes,
ears and eejits, elephants and exams,
flies and flutes, files and friends,
grasses and guts, giants and gyms,
horrors and hiccups, horses and hills,
igloos and irons, irises and idiots,
jumpers and jackets, jodhpurs and jellies,
kings and kettles, kites and kittens,
lions and lamps, lemons and lunches,
mums and monsters, mosses and moths,
noses and notes, nightmares and needles,
oblongs and orang-utans, organs and oranges,
paintings and pennies, ponds and pants,
quiches and quizzes, questions and queues,
rainbows and rings, rascals and rabbits,
snakes and sprouts, sweets and salts,
trumpets and trains, tables and toasters,
umpires and ukuleles, umbrellas and uniforms,
violets and vests, violins and vials,
wheels and wings, windows and weeds,
xylems and x-rays, xylophones and xysters,
yachts and yoghurts, yards and yaks,
zigzags and zephyrs, ziggurats and zombies.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
No vices, no difference
I have some things to do tomorrow,
I think I’ll just take the wagon
I’m just waiting for something to happen
to help me make up my mind
I always imagine tragic
someone dies and they’re so close
I don’t believe in fairy tales or souls,
but I don’t even want to write their names
for fear I’ll have a hand in why they lost life’s duel
or maybe we’re all just an election away from
anarchic warring states,
where I must defend my beans and cucumbers
from slugs and marauders
If we hold it together, red China could invade
so would I rather be a prisoner or dead?
Perhaps, I’ll just meet some girl,
where I’ll feel “some” as a description does her deep injustice,
because the love will be enormous
Now, I’m courting a chickadee that’s never dull,
but her name doesn’t quite roll off the tongue
Her name is Adventure and she rolls like hills and mountains,
and speed popping truckers with their eyes and ecstatic smiles
If I’m still seeing her, I might be a gat slinging ******* out west
bumming around San Jose or Cambodiay
Hearing all that talk, I think I just want to leave,
and I guess the pay is better anyway
My mind is made up
it’s not something real
It is, was, and is still fluffed up with schooling and the words of persuasive people
their confidence in what their saying is like a lightning bolt ******* into my stem
they jammed us into waiting rooms for something called progress
they even separate the sick people
I closed my eyes to see what was real,
and saw nothing
There is no waiting room at all
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
you cut the brown boy
into two lines while i roll a dollar bill
you're telling me about how i should let you shoot up
just once
so you can know what it's like.
i loved the way ****** tasted, the way it felt sitting in my nose.
unlike blow or pills, you don't let it drain into your throat
it just sits there
and pushes into you.
you cut the brown boy
and when we snort it it tastes like sugar
sweeter than the coke cut with B12 that had me up all night
and i can taste it all over my body
like the sour sweet is pacing through my body to the beating of my heart
i feel it in my arms
i feel it in my nose
i feel it between my legs.
i felt so warm, and then i was on top of you.
kissing on your neck and grinding on your lap, i can feel your heartbeat and it is so
s
l
o
w.
the sun is setting outside
and your skin is ignited with the orange flame.
you taste like cherries and cucumbers and ******
the warmth is even brighter when you are inside of me,
i am holding you so close that i'm scared if we go still we will just
melt into each other.
"i love you
i love you
i love you" we whisper back and forth;
you grip my hands while i ***
we're outside for a cigarette in your car
we're going to go buy some molly in a city far away
your eyelids are still sagging
and everything is still so slow
i can see the yellow of the nicotine in the smoke.
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 11:07 AM UTC
A child, not of speaking age, sat
across me at tea time. The mother
fed her cake and cucumber
sandwiches, and the young girl
screeched with
a sour face
staring at me as if I held the solution
to erasing the taste of sweets and crunchy water.
I feigned a smile.
It occurred to me that even as old as she was,
she had opinions on things she would forget. No one
remembers not liking cucumbers that young.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 11:44 PM UTC
All he could see were numbers
that reached out and grabbed taxes
and takes, invoices and expenditures.
He could not see explanations of delight
that little mistake I made with fringe benefits,
those royalties that never came.
In the end his only concern was to pay the taxes
to build the roads, skyways and airports
where he would travel and stay.
I wondered how he slept at night
cocooned in numbers
just 1-9 with a hefty zero
that made the difference between rich and poor
I wondered how he could survive on numbers
no cucumbers, sunshine salads, beach beauties,
high waves of reckless living, low tides of penniless nights
and endless days of counting little many times over.
He said to me once: Save every cent,
fortify yourself against depression and
natural disasters, don't spend lavishly
there's a price to pay
cut up your credit card. Live austerely.
Oh yeah?. That same day I got an extra CC,
a nice Merc, some good looking sunglasses
(to shield my eyes from the accountants glare)
and a cruise to the Mediterranean
where the blue waters beckoned.
The accountant visited the GP
twice more than me that year.
I'm still working the fat off at the gym.
( I suspect petty poets do the same thing all the time?)
Author Notes
Anyone know this guy?
Check this Novel out!
The Chrysanthemum Trilogy: Transition
Marshall E Gass
ISBN 9781493137848
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 5:21 PM UTC
Melting pots are for racists.
The USA is a salad bowl.
The student lounge features
the veggies at their ripest,
collecting oxygen amongst themselves,
for the corn cannot exist
with the broccoli,
and so on
and so forth.
Don't even mention
fruits
to the potatoes.
And the tomatoes,
they're just weird, man,
don't even know
what they are.
We are all at our most
savory and nutritious,
our youthful wisdom
emanating through our
concrete set of hues.
The chili peppers emanate a color
as red as the blood
of their ancestral martyrdom,
no other color,
just red.
Same for the cucumbers
with hearts so coolly refrigerated,
taking forest green,
taking pastel green
with just a few drops
of ivory-scented beige
tucked neatly behind
walls of bamboo-level peels.
The voices of the onions
thud onto the floor
as if being catapulted
from cumulonimbus peaks,
causing the Iceberg lettuce
to almost drown in its own
dressing.
Lady Liberty,
a series of
produce section fragments
sitting much too sternly
with no regard for sprawling.
In the same bowl, though!
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:52 AM UTC
Some people say cucumbers taste better pickled.
They come out wrinkled and cold,
their verdant skins hardened and crisp.
One crushing bite reveals
a soft yellow center,
soured cells seeping embalming vinegar.
Feathery dill disintegrates,
bringing biting flavor
to our cryogenic sandwich toppers
But, some people say cucumbers taste better pickled.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 4:40 PM UTC
Dear Angela,
When was the last time the wind blew threw your hair or did it go through your body too? I didn’t know the last time we saw each other, the cat would stain on the wall with its **** and then you would miss your date. Your hair looked like a crown in the sun. Did you ever get the energy to come out of bed?
Dear Angela,
Soot collects in the hollows your cheekbones, the eyeliner you have rubbed off in your sleep. The last time I saw you, you were cleaning the cat’s **** from the walls and missed your date and we laughed it off and had pizza instead. Angela, I know you are exhausted from simply opening your eyes. Angela, do you still hold your body at night like it is something holy?
Dear Angela,
Do you remember when we had tea in the August heat in clear plastic cups with our pinkies up and your mother showed us her corrugated cucumbers? Angela do you remember when you were swimming in the Y with the ladies whose bodies could hold your body and mine and still have room for more.
Dear Angela,
Do you remember when we walked out of class during your first panic attack and how I told you to lay down on the plastic benches that littered the hallway and you said you suddenly felt calm again? Angela do you still lie down on your side sometimes and think about going back to your prime days? Did you know then?
Dear Angela,
I can tell you to stay strong but I don’t know what that means either. I can tell you that it is winter now and it is cold and campus is a dead white man’s tomb but there are still flowers that stay in the winter time. They call it a winter garden. Angela, maybe you are a winter garden, maybe you are the softest footprint in the snow.
Jun 29, 2019
Jun 29, 2019 at 4:50 PM UTC
would you like to take a walk
through my gardens now with me?
with the loveliest of flower
and the tiniest of pea?
yes?
good,
well come along my darling
now come along it's free,
an let's go to the gardens
to see what we can see
well,
I planted here some garlic
from the garlic bulbs I had
an the bok choy
well it bolted
and I lost it
that's too bad
but still
it had some flowers
though,
so really not so sad,
sigh,
smile now, ; )
see the tomatoes look so happy
lots to can, to cook an share
the cucumbers are plenty
see those guys are everywhere,
those here are purple eggplant
with soft delicate new flowers,
an the weather has been perfect
just so hot with scattered showers
the chocolate mint like poetry
WiLd and prolific
dead head all the marigolds
an boy they grow terrific,
in lovely burning oranges
and yellows
you can eat,
marigolds - nasturtiums
are really such a treat
and eating from my garden
well really can't be beat,
the kale is getting big,
and my peppers hot an mild
the pumpkins taking over
like an ivy envy wild
cosmos and green beans
were started from a seed,
radishes are too,
look-
I snuck 'em in between,
basil and cilantro
rosemary and sage,
I could go on and on
and write another page
but really you should visit
and come to see it now
but thanks for reading this
though vicarious somehow
I'm still happy for to share
my life
and love today
I hope you know I care
an are soon
here on your way
even in grey skies
for the growing I will pray,
and I will be here waiting
tending gardens
come what may.
Ma Cherie © 2017
Jul 22, 2017
Jul 22, 2017 at 1:03 PM UTC
em...
what's the difference between
refugees, economic migrants...
and ex-pats?
not much...
esp.with regards the latter...
who are ex-pats?
immigrants,
from a de- host nation...
English women sipping tea
with Mussolini...
ex-pats:
out of, what? patriotism?
maybe my latin prefixing is
a bit rusty...
ginger amy adams...
by god....
if a rose... that...
that is a rose...
strawberry blonde...
mmm mmm...
kentucky fried chicken...
f'now i wish for an ***
i can ***** all day long in
Manhattan...
and be like:
yummy and **** me three ways
sinister...
because? why not?!
ginger ninja...
nunchucks up the ***
to replace the ****** or
the cucumbers...
bridegroom of
Bruce ******* Lee...
makes up for a degenerate
market...
slurp an oyster...
bargain on clam economy...
point being?
self-harming of girls
replaces
the tattoo industry...
of girls...
and the world continues
its carousel "enterprise"...
then the world dies...
and then the world revives itself...
self-harming text books...
and then comes along...
tattoo -
the spiral,
deficit woman -
her due, her, own,
her: albatross swoon -
dive into the curtailed unknown -
a woman hindered -
a woman governed by the hinterland -
a scrap of,
what became the scoop of
what later became -
the crown of Poseidon's
scavenger
ushering in...
the last, of what remained:
a peeled onion.
St. Basil -
came the crow,
came the cathedral,
came the gauged out eyes..
came the croak...
came...
the span of wings...
came...
the labors -
a mind, a lost digestion...
came...
a vision of a future...
without the fiction
of an immovable past.
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 8:17 PM UTC
I took Billy Collins to lunch with me today.
He kept me company, Horoscopes of the Dead
and new versions of Dante’s hellish sandwich.
My pasta was dry, but I ate it
between stanzas and between pages.
You walked in, backpack and all, at the top
of the stairs. I choked on some graded cheese,
because of the way you looked in your khakis.
I hate the taste of cucumbers but I would have
kissed you anyway. Even though,
I sometimes laugh a little too loud in the mornings
you still make sanctuaries out of my sheets,
covering us in a layer of polka dots,
craving each other’s skin, listening
the lullaby the ruffles of the duvet make.
And even though I sometimes know
that wanting you has its clumsy consequences,
I still lose my breath when you walk up
to the lunch line, or when you grab my face
with both hands, or when you say my name
backwards between sighs. Maybe Billy understands,
and maybe I can just stay a poet. Maybe,
you would look good on me. I’d love
to try you on. But I lost my breath
when you walked in this afternoon.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC
Here in the capitol
of lowercase relations
your drink is holding
yard sales for you.
Among headstones is a table, a lock, a plate of cucumbers
and salamanders (which can be pickled), a bowl of raisins --
a handful -- skating the bowl's concavity,
trying to
become round.
If a condition of space travel was one could nevermore return,
how many astronauts do you think
there'd have been?
More stars in lawschool than the cosmos.
Somewhere there's a story
of Indians singing
instead of pointing and laughing
when the Pilgrims came
and the Atlantic dropped off
into the earth's crust behind them. You see
pickles can't become cucumbers again. Everyone who died
drunk driving in World War II knows that.
But still
ovens dream of one day being iceboxes,
and the ice cubes all know this
and it makes them sweat.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 3:38 PM UTC
(poem not for the modest)
1)
Susan is envious about
Mr Ron’s rich-red tomatoes
just over the fence;
and Susan asks how he does it
“Oh,” says Mr Thorn, *“I expose myself
twice daily to the tomatoes
and they blush and so they are red
Try it with your vegetables, Susan”*
2)
It’s three weeks later
and Mr Thorn asks over the fence:
“Hey Susan, how are your veggies now?”
“Well,” replies Susan, *“tomatoes are the same
Oh but you should see the cucumbers –
my, how they've grown!”*
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 7:47 AM UTC