"dinnertime" poems
How is it,
you ask
and when we open our mouths,
instead you devour the words,
waving utensils,
knitting your eyebrows
like the crochet tablecloth.
Dinnertime conversations revolve
around loud voices
as we wipe our lips with
napkins –
tinged with
regret and bitterness
and sip from our glasses
filled to the brim with
liquid lava,
warmly trickling down our throats –
choking on sobs.
We eat off the plates that
contain nothing but
crumbs –
leftovers of our dreams,
and excuse ourselves while
shoulders slump
and the last bite of remorse
melts away
and when
the words have made the air
heavy.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 8:58 PM UTC
She meets a man at In-N-Out.
He sits down, and she quickly tunes out.
Moves phone from the once vacant seat.
Don't worry, he said
I won't take your things.
Oh — I was just moving it...
from your seat.
Averts eyes. Looks at feet
It's my first time here — I drove from Ohio.
Closes open apps.
Wait — you drove to LA to try In-N-Out?
Well, no, I'm headed to Vegas, but I
was curious what all the fuss was about.
It's 4 hours from here, and I have time to ****
Opens Instagram.
You mean to Las Vegas, not Ohio, right?
Oh no — yea, Ohio is a 24-hour drive.
Tapping feet. Two people in line.
God, it's crazy here! (said w/incredulous chime)
Busy? Hah — try dinnertime.
Tags @innoutburger on marquee.
They told me I'm number 26 in line.
Misses his smile at the receipt.
I'm number 18.
Looks at feet.
But I just heard them say 23.
They'll call me.
Checks the time.
NUMBER 18!
I gotta run — that's me.
Well it was nice...
Leaves
meeting you.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 7:51 PM UTC
head between my knees
fetal position
don’t eat
on the bathroom floor
tears streaming down my face
skinny
hunger pains
stomach crying out for food
thinspiration
pinching the fat
fat on my thighs
ana ana ana
fat on my stomach
fat everywhere
don’t eat
Will I ever be okay again?
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 6:26 PM UTC
Purrfection is in the smallest
Warmest purrs
Which kittens love to give
And it is a sign that they are happy
Purrfection is in the smallest kitten
Which brings joy to its new life
And joy to the world
Purrfection is in the smallest mouse
Which cats and kittens love to pounce upon
Quite playfully
Purrfection is dinnertime
When kittens and cats are called to eat
Their daily meals
And gracefully lick their lips
With each dainty bite
Purrfection is in their adventerous spirit
When they love to wander
But of course it isn't purrfection
When they roam too far away from home
Or never return at all
Purrfection is dancing with the butterflies
And pouncing upon green grass
Which all cats all ages love to do
Purrfection is laying upon master
Or mistress's lap
Or basking in the sun
Purrfection to cats is all things
And for me it's the simplest things
~Marian~
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
There are times that I feel I don’t even know you. Times that seem to never fade away. But, as a child who dealt with you leaving day after day I feel like I shouldn’t be so scared. At age 5, I was little boy wishing to be all he could be. A kid that any dad would want. I wanted to be just like you. Big muscles, strong voice and my own company. At age 10, I was growing tired of you. But, I was still a boy, unwilling to see what was actually happening. You’re seemingly unending verbal abuse secrets a deadly poison into my veins. Now as I slowly creep my testosterone levels up, up and away, I’ll start to pull down your kaleidoscope colored curtains. By 15, we couldn’t be more separate. Divided by dinnertime arguments and back-talking homework battles. The more you speak, the more I want to leave this house and never come back. I sometimes wish I could change things but, it’s too little, too late. At age 16 to the day, I step in the labyrinth that confines me to find you raged and red-faced and she is on the phone, canceling the party. My not-so-sweet 16 ended in a hotel room, filled with unshown tears and bags of Cheez-its. Then, I finally decided who you were to me the day I went to tell my mother about my day at school. Tears ran like the free-flowing waters of the Amazon as she tried to defend you’re already broken armor. My brain ran 653 miles an hour as she spoken of a deed I thought unspeakable. You call me on the phone and say “I don’t know what to say, bro.” Well, “bro” how about “I’m sorry for literally breaking every life long lesson I’ve taught you and I’m sorry for smashing the hearts and minds of our family.” That can get you by on our 3 minute 27 second phone call. Now, I look at you and can’t decide. Are you still the man with big muscles, strong voice and his own company? or are the shell of a man I still wish I knew? I wish I could answer but, There are times that I feel like I don’t even know you.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 11:05 PM UTC
Mamacita hold me dearly under folds
of black hair where light can't shine I
feel the warmest with my nose
pulling deep breaths of floral shampoos
and hot mesoamerican corn tortilla
from the oven with pepper carnitas drifting
through cracks under locked bedroom
doorhandles, in the bed and under
an azetec starred quilt duvet between sunshine
brown arms with tiny black feminine hairs,
I think about dinnertime at seven
with my warm Mamacita and her cousins
and of all the caring people
L.A shared with me.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC
There she was again
The girl in the sandbox
Her brown hair cut short
Wearing pink shorts
And no shirt
I'm not entirely sure she's a girl
"Do you want to play with me
We can go and get my toys
And build sandcastles, play hide and seek"
She frowned at me and I wondered
Does she know how to talk
She muttered and walked away
#
"My mum sent me
She said that we should walk together"
It's early morning, -25*C
"Ok" said the girl from the sandbox
We were 8 years old
I can count the words she has spoken with one hand
It's nearly dinnertime
Where is the girl
You know the one from the sandbox
Crazy thing, she told me
Not to vacuum clean snow off the floor
And she gave me a puppy pendant
#
Now I don't live here anymore
And I don't have her number
They call us "Foreign Finns"
But sure thing if I go
To her parents house
I'll find her
Knock knock says the door
Her mum opens up and hugs me
Takes her phone and says
"Guess who's here"
And without hesitation
She says "Lily. I'm coming"
The girl from the sandbox
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 7:15 AM UTC
the sharp edged
rubble
of the decimated
mud crab
lay in a pile
of shell,shards
and hollow limbs
we sat, fingers
and faces smeared
singapore curry sauce
smiling, as we raise
our beers to
still tingling lips.
simultaneously
we burp... in appreciation
big joyous burps
of yeast and curry.
we laugh....
before starting to clear
the table
of the mess...
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 7:57 AM UTC
Sometimes I'll hear your footsteps
in the empty hallway
And your laughter
in the vacant living room
I'll smell your perfume
in the musty closet
And feel your wit
in the silent dinnertime gloom
Sometimes I'll wait for your smile
Standing at the gate at 2:45
And wonder what you're doing, how you're feeling,
and what you cooked last night
So I'll call you up after office hours
but there's nothing to say
Still, just listening to the silence between us
is enough to make my day
I'll lament over the memories we can't make
and the inside jokes we'll never know
The premiers we're missing out on
The feelings I'll never show
I know you're doing your best
to protect and shield me always
but all I really want is
a Cadbury and a protective embrace
Because I want to hug you
all the time, everyday
And not just when we're saying goodbye
before you get into your car and drive away
Happy Father's Day.
© Copyright
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 7:49 AM UTC
i sit in a boat
and im so far from shore i have forgotten which direction the horizon follows me
i am so far from home the word sounds foreign and construed as an apology
i am so out of reach the seagulls will never dive deep enough
or swoop shallow and barely disturb the oceans sequence of tides and rhythms
to pick me up
i sit in a boat
the waves steady flow acts as a clock to keep me sane
it rocks me
it rocks my boat
back and forth in its tick tock motion
the fact that i haven't seen any fish glide by
and wrap themselves in the warmth of the crystals dancing on the top of the water
creates a feeling more violently lonely in the pit of my stomach
than the fact that i sit in a boat all alone
i sit in a boat
in the middle of the ocean
in the middle of nowhere
its easy to comprehend that there is nothing above me
the sky is a blank sheet of paper
the horizon falls all around me an encompasses me
looking up makes me lose time with the waves
its harder to comprehend the likelihood of nothing below me
when i fall in the water
and when i wave my arms towards the diamonds above me
when i blow air though my nose
and keep my eyes shut tight
when the water begins to get cold around my feet
towards my chest and on my shoulders
when the light green water that has comforted me like a mother
that has taught me like a father
the waves that have kept me in sane like a teacher
disintegrates into a dark murky black
so quickly i have no time to notice
where the pressure is too loud to hear any lessons
where the touch is so ice cold every hug feels like a constrictive hand around my throat
i sit in a boat
its easy to understand i am alone up above
no one calls dinnertime
no waves rock me to sleep
no birds call their mates
no bugs fall in and out of their reflections
its harder to fathom that
under the peak of the water
under the tired lazy strokes
i look intently and see nothing
i look intently and all i see is how
in an ocean that stretches forever
and falls off of the horizon
i was alone before i realized it
i was alone when the sun reached down
and bounced off of its blue playground
i was alone when it comforted me and i was alone when it choked me
all i have ever been
is completely alone
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 8:08 PM UTC
Life is a series of demands. Hurry up, perform.
Do your homework, write a paper, oh and read 300 pages,
get in those volunteer hours, grab those lab credentials.
I get busy, caught up in projects and I forget stuff
like dinnertime, peeing before it’s an emergency,
or like calling you - last night.
On vacation I’m unplugged, I’m avoiding focus,
I’m not paying attention, my mind’s wandering.
I’d want you less if it were required by law.
I imagine your huge, brown saucer eyes
exhibiting a wounded, blaming expression and I can’t.
Maybe there’s a biological explanation, yes, that’s it,
I’m missing an enzyme, I have a glandular disorder
that prevents long distance relationships from working.
No, not work - It can’t be work - it should be exciting.
Is it a crime to want some time off from pressure?
I’m not asking for a pony.
Just a sabbatical couple of weeks away from obligations.
I felt so guilty that I went to Karen (Lisa’s mom) about it.
We talked for over an hour, she’s so smart, I love her.
She reminded me about the recent lockdowns
and how years of skyping and remote learning
might affect (dull-down) a long distance romance.
I told her what you said, about my sinatra psyche
and she said although I seem absurdly secure,
I’m probably still figuring things out - and that’s ok.
There’s really no substitute for talking to a mom.
I called you - and left a message - I hope you understand.
I turned my phone off - for now.
Dec 29, 2022
Dec 29, 2022 at 7:15 AM UTC
She stands in the kitchen
slicing vegetables again
gazing wistfully
through memory's window
to a sharp winter day
with that sweet carefree man
when they walked the seashore
haloed by salt breeze
clinging to each another
laughing at the gale
promising everything
always and forever
but like every night
her reverie fades
no talk of love, no seashore
no crisp air, no calling gulls
just the smell of roast beef
and the droning voice
of the man she settled for
igniting once again
a deep sad rumbling
from her heart’s basket
of buried dreams
as the house begins to shake
and kitchen floor cracks open
its hungry maw gaping
swallowing her whole
helpless in an avalanche
of potatoes and paring knives
with sharp edges
like the teeth
of her resignation.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 4:32 PM UTC
He drinks it up, he drinks the
**** like it’s water.
There are faces, and files
and they change with the seasons.
The parking lot has never been this dim, but
who forgot to turn on the lights?
The friends who gave him trouble
now just give him help.
The scarred people seem little more than
pawns in a game, and he must play them, but
it’s not his choice.
The mirror’s like a caricature,
it provides more distance than closeness.
I wished he could’ve seen his son
being born, but.
Somebody slams the table, ****
something’s going on
We got him, men
we got him, we got him.
Oh wait, oh wait, egg on our face,
we got played, we got tricked
this man is just black.
“I want to prevail,” he says,
“I’m no loser,” he says.
He’s no quitter, but
he sure ****** it up.
The faces get twisted, now the
eyes look the same.
This won’t be the first time
and it won’t be the last.
He blames a lot on others,
but he knows that persistence
is infallible, like the pope.
Nobody really trusts him now, he’s a bit of
everything and everywhere.
Heart’s in the right place, but
where’s your heart?
He keeps downing the brown ****
keeps downing the liquids.
“One day I’ll get him,” he says.
“one day I’ll get the *******
At this point, he speaks for himself,
for himself. Nobody, no
one, nobody else.
At dinnertime, he says,
“sing me a song.”
Relax is defeat,
rest is charity, rest is
A deep moral compromise.
a loser needs a bed
A winner needs a mug.
he downs the ****
He downs the ****
god, he downs the ****
like it’s water.
OOGABOOGABOOGA
i’ve got him in my sights
He won’t see it coming
he’ll be shocked as the rest
A **** like that? no
he wouldn’t see a barn.
He didn’t say, didn’t see
his own mother, his mother
When he came out the womb.
didn’t see **** I say,
didn’t see ****
SPIRAL espionage ELEGY sang
now or never or ever again.
RAINTIME odysseys
left im babbling rancid
The ragtime freaks giving him looks
from the left of the sandbags,
The night, the night,
too long, too long,
The night’s a *****
i can’t stay, i can’t stay
to night’s a *****
i can’t stay with this *****
this ***** no
take these ropes off
this *****
***** take these chains off
i will, i will
i, no
you are you
people
you are *******
you are stupid *******
these are chains
i am chained
who
why
god
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 2:02 AM UTC
Mind the sprouts
Pass on the egg
That's mayonaise
See, I'm fat
Don't want that
For you
Beef and pork
Friends cow and pig
My dividends:
Lunchtime.
Dinnertime.
To feed
Order the billy club
Then masticate
Avoid the tuna fish
Avoid the weight
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 11:03 PM UTC
the heart.
a heart was painted on canvas at dinnertime
in the midst of laughter & embarrassing memorables.
coloured in her blues & ice as though recently shipwrecked,
it clashed with the musk of a third glass of wine.
it melted into the paper’s weight,
absorbing the music of two lives colliding.
his reds were opaque with a firm pursuing
of what he had been searching & for whom he had desired.
the opaque & the ice became one,
a juxtapositional melody humming vibrantly in harmony.
the hearts.
meanwhile, his eyelashes, full & plush, gazed toward her flourishings
as she ran her fingers across his own parchment symphonies.
he rested one hand on the cusp of his palette,
the other entangled in his sable hair,
& she held close a momentary glimpse of euphoria
whilst she nibbled on the edge of his paintbrush.
as they shared this evening with each other,
the hopes & dreams they kept,
her blues & his reds blended as one;
part of him had become hers.
(& she, his. )
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
Down in the forest,
Amid the creaking pines,
Are two rusty old silos.
We call them the tin cans.
A brave few will climb them
And balance on the walls
As sentries to those inside.
Encircled in old metal
There's a pow-wow going
Between the chieftan of North Can
And the princess of the South.
Bubbles drift as smoke from their mouths
And their round cheeks stretch in yawns
That betray the distant setting sun.
Our war is over, the chief declares,
But neither side has won.
That's true, the queen smirks back at him,
And neither ever can. What do we do?
He glistens with battle sweat and
His soldier's breath is heavy.
You and I will draw up a treaty,
He says, and war another day.
She acquiesces and signs her name
On a bit of leaf in invisible ink;
He does the same, and both recline
A moment against the flaking metal walls
While the topmost edge of the sun falls
Below the curve of the earth
And the dark branches of the trees
Cradle a baby night.
Up top a sentry calls dinnertime.
Jun 1, 2011
Jun 1, 2011 at 10:47 AM UTC
based on the painting “Prince Pig and The Second Sister” by Paula Rego
my hooves meant nothing
to her. She sat in my lap and stroked my chest
as if she was the
prince. It took everything in her power to reassure me
that I wouldn’t be slaughtered in the morning, but she looked
past me – an empty
gaze. Come dinnertime tomorrow I would sit on a platter and
she would feed off of me with an apple stuffed in my mouth
and a knife in
my shoulder. On some level, I cannot blame her – her hair is
caught between my hooves when we make love, and my grunting
keeps her up at night. She is worthy of soft fur
and slender fingers. I am desired, but only until I am fat enough to eat.
Her legs tighten on my hips but she is cold, like the chamber where
my blood will drain.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 12:36 AM UTC
When we were young,
A universe was erected in our home.
The walls of our home were infinite and magical,
They were impenetrable and everlasting.
When we jumped, we thought maybe
We could fly.
When we were young, we could
Get lost in our house.
It was a whole world,
The outdoors were only an extension.
When we were young,
Dinnertime was solemn and thoughtless
Snacks came and went.
Floorboards held unknown delicacies and treasure troves.
When we were young,
We believed in the magic of mankind
And the infinity of a home.
When we were young,
We never expected to be anything else.
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 2:56 PM UTC
He set down the forks, spoons, and knives.
he put out the plates
one, two, three, four, fiv-
"Hey, honey?"
yes mom?
"He's not coming back. Don't waste space on the table."
*but if he comes home,
it would make him really mad if I didn't set a place for him*
"You don't need to worry about him anymore. We are safe here."
He picked up one fork
one spoon
one knife
and one plate
and put them back in the cupboard.
At least that's one less cup to pour...
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
Your lips are wet,
****** clean by your tongue
darting insolently,
giving the game away.
Your lips burn red
in angry anticipation
and agitated by the
hot
raw
sting
of your racing breath.
Your eyes are ink,
you spilled it with trembling hands
over your coffee liqueur
irises but
I drank them anyway.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 7:33 PM UTC
The chain
on my mood swing
snapped today
and I just about went ballistic
when I saw my husbands
cluttered closet
*** as frightening as a bomb scare)
I yelled at him for the 100th time
to get with the program and
instead of cleaning it for him
I handed him my phone and said
"Here's my phone, it has GPS
so you can find your way back
and please be home by dinnertime"
for some reason, he found no humor in that
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 9:59 PM UTC
Icicles hanging from the ceiling
My breath coming out in clouds
Tap my back pocket one last time
Map tucked safely away
I made you a *** of tea
Are you cold?
Are you well?
Hush now, I’m here with you
Frost on all the walls
I’ll be back tomorrow, my love
Around dinnertime
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 12:54 AM UTC
First morninglight through windowpane
falls to kiss
the carpet, our front garden’s Clarkia
left no trace of last
night’s condensed mist.
Is there happiness enough
to fill these rooms, or
could there ever be?
Like the relief that echoes
through living rooms on Christmas
noons, like the smile rising from a voice
at the suggestion of “Tea?”
Will the cosy silence play
to win out the crowd’s
lament? Will the dinnertime rustle
deliver imagination out from under
time's sway?
Do these questions sound like
asking the weight of water?
A cup of late youth’s innocence
to be drenched with irony,
pity’s daughter?
The home to while the world away, where to
process life’s refinery
A well-made plot that shuns
a twist.
A dry-witted author
Whose lust is the mundane.
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 1:42 PM UTC
she sits and she stares
as her life flashes by
backlit by the soft blue
glow of a television
she's alone at dinnertime
determined to wait out her hunger
she sits and she sips
from a glass on the table
content to pretend
that she's not lonely
but she is
you can see it
in the set of her shoulders
the sigh in her chest
her mouth says she's happy
and it has her convinced
that he's all she needs
and all she ever will need
but the hollow beats of her heart
are begging for love
to come fill the space she's created
by pushing everyone else away
she sits and she stares
and she thinks and she dreams
and she laughs and she cries
and she switches the channels
and the streetlights come on
and she convinces herself that
she's not lonely
oh no, she's not lonely at all
Jun 23, 2010
Jun 23, 2010 at 3:23 PM UTC