"dishwasher" poems
not much chance,
completely cut loose from
purpose,
he was a young man
riding a bus
through North Carolina
on the wat to somewhere
and it began to snow
and the bus stopped
at a little cafe
in the hills
and the passengers
entered.
he sat at the counter
with the others,
he ordered and the
food arived.
the meal was
particularly
good
and the
coffee.
the waitress was
unlike the women
he had
known.
she was unaffected,
there was a natural
humor which came
from her.
the fry cook said
crazy things.
the dishwasher.
in back,
laughed, a good
clean
pleasant
laugh.
the young man watched
the snow through the
windows.
he wanted to stay
in that cafe
forever.
the curious feeling
swam through him
that everything
was
beautiful
there,
that it would always
stay beautiful
there.
then the bus driver
told the passengers
that it was time
to board.
the young man
thought, I'll just sit
here, I'll just stay
here.
but then
he rose and followed
the others into the
bus.
he found his seat
and looked at the cafe
through the bus
window.
then the bus moved
off, down a curve,
downward, out of
the hills.
the young man
looked straight
foreward.
he heard the other
passengers
speaking
of other things,
or they were
reading
or
attempting to
sleep.
they had not
noticed
the
magic.
the young man
put his head to
one side,
closed his
eyes,
pretended to
sleep.
there was nothing
else to do-
just to listen to the
sound of the
engine,
the sound of the
tires
in the
snow.
12.4k
The short-order cook and the dishwasher
argue the relative merits
of Rilke’s Elegies
against Eliot’s Four Quartets,
but the delivery man who brings eggs
suggests they have forgotten Les fleurs
du mal and Baudelaire. The waitress
carrying three plates and a coffee ***
can’t decide whom she loves more—
Rimbaud or Verlaine,
William Blake or William Wordsworth.
She refills the rabbi’s cup
(he’s reading Rumi),
asks what he thinks of Arthur Whaley.
In the booth behind them, a fat woman
feeds a small white poodle in her lap,
with whom she shares her spoon.
"It’s Rexroth’s translations of the Japanese,"
she says, "that one can’t live without:
May those who are born after me
Never travel such roads of love."
The revolving door proffers
a stranger in a long black coat, lost in the madhouse poems of John Clare.
As he waits to be seated,
the woman who owns the place
hands him a menu
in which he finds several handwritten poems
By Hafiz, Gibran, and Rabindranath Tagore.
The lunch hour’s crowded—
the owner wonders
if the stranger might share
my table. As he sits,
I put a finger to my lips,
and with my eyes ask him
to listen with me
to the young boy and the young girl
two tables away
taking turns reading aloud
the love poems of Pablo Neruda.
4.9k
Life is so funny in its
uncanny and unpredictable
ways.
It reaches out to us
with powerful grip,
yet allows us to make decisions
about what we think we want
without interference
but with consequences
of our actions.
Molded in our favour,
fashioned to bring succour
and comfort to ameliorate
the pains to be encountered.
This helps to do things
the right way the first time,
allowing things to manifest
and work the way they should,
not the other way around.
It’s like when we brush
our teeth before we go to
the dentist to have
a teeth cleaning or
when we wash the dishes before
we put them in the dishwasher
or when we clean up the house
before the maid arrives.
These are not following
the natural order of things.
Yield to the kindness of nature.
Listen to the rhythm it beats
into your consciousness,
it's wisdom is of superior quality.
Accept whatever it gives you,
for the miraculous is woven
and hidden inside it.
The notion is to take you to the apex
of your mountain if patience is excellently
exercised and not be distracted.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 12:36 PM UTC
I have hairy legs.
The dishwasher is broken.
I have been reading books.
I have been solving stupid math equations
I have to wash the food crusted dishes.
I’m writing a novella
I’m also researching sodium chloride
My novella is only six pages single-spaced so far.
Comment vous appelez-vous?
Why doesn’t anyone participate
In the
Wash Your Own **** Dishes Program?
I’m studying French.
-b +/- Square root of b2 – 4 (a)(b) over 2(a)
Anyways.
I have been teaching myself
How to play my
Black
Stretchy
Accordion.
[I don’t know why,
But it’s stretchy
Like mozzarella cheese]
I have to help my sister-in-law move
Into my house.
Into the basement.
Heh heh heh.
Daiya non-dairy cheese:
“Melts and stretches!”
Now I have to scrape the
Black tar gunk
Off the plates, because
Mother told me to do so.
Oh, the odium of sodium!
There is
No more time
For me
To shave
My legs.
Apr 6, 2011
Apr 6, 2011 at 7:15 PM UTC
The woman poured herself another glass of wine,
Like another night alone.
The house was empty,
And the humming of the dishwasher bounced off the walls.
She sat by the window and pulled the black heels off her feet.
This was beginning to get old.
People outside paced in pairs.
Her house was dark.
The only light came from the kitchen,
glowing out to the adjacent ro0m.
She sipped at her wine, and rested the glass on her knee.
With an exasperated sigh,
She threw the wine glass against the opposite wall.
The glass flew, sparkling in the dim light
And merlot ran down the white wall.
She dusted off her hands, and undressed silently.
In the bathroom, she started water for a shower.
In silence, once again, she stood under the rush of water.
An hour's time went by, and the water was shut off.
Without bothering to dry herself, she stepped out,
And fell into bed.
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 3:19 PM UTC
Why Men Like to Load the Dishwasher
We are the artists of shape and configuration,
puzzle masters solving riddles of physics,
worshipers at the altar of labor saving devices,
this is a love poem of sorts, a Bazinga salutation,
to men and their undying love
for **** machines.
were it in my power
all cups would be handle-less,
the dishwasher time-space continuum
would be non-interrupted by black holes
where handles pointlessly protrude,
requiring endless rearrangement,
a soul destroying exercise.
bowls of any sort should have bottoms that retract.
indeed, the capacity increase, a visible fact,
is so enviro-friendly, eminently sensible,
that the loading for mechanical scrubbing
is deserved of a wing in the Smithsonian.
perhaps the budgeteers of Congress
should be tutored in this artistry,
how to make any limited resource,
better used.
the rub, as the bard would have writ,
is that this roaring tempest-tost,
our love for hard labor lost,
secret sacrificed behind a locked door,
of a Sanctum ********
is entirely due, all glory to,
the secret society of fairies who
hide-reside inside,
freeing us to write more poetry.
in so many ways that I cannot reveal,
less the other gender members squeal,
men live to love to load the dishwasher,
for the ingenuity challenge, and of course,
the side benefit of the excusing coverup,
"I helped clean up," a relationship saver,
proof positively that the dishwasher inventor,
was surely a brilliant woman
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 8:26 AM UTC
I am not at home.
Home is where you go back to after vacation.
Where you don’t worry about whether to take your shoes off in the entryway.
Where you know that the light switch between you and your parent’s bedroom
doesn’t actually do anything.
Where you know you can leave your ***** dishes on the counter
because somebody will put them in the dishwasher for you.
Where people say, “What are you doing for the holidays?”
And you say, “I’m going home.”
And they say, “Oh, that’s nice,”
and it is.
That’s home.
But I have none of those things.
Sometimes things like that depress me. And then I have this strange urge to tell someone,
just to see if it depresses them too.
It doesn’t have to be someone I care about. It just has to be someone who would listen.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 7:47 PM UTC
IF ONLY
If only my fridge spoke
It would tell me to go away.
Put the pie back on the shelf
And eat it another day.
If only my oven spoke
It would tell me to keep it clean
I try but it gets messy again
That is not me being mean.
If only my dishwasher spoke
It would tell me it has had enough
Fed up with ***** pots and pans
Fed up with being treated rough.
If only I were superwoman
I could get these jobs done
What I need is a superman
Wonder if h will ever come?
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 8:26 AM UTC
oh my god
i am so sorry
it's just that my battery died and i drove around for hours looking for your new second floor apartment
i am sticking my fingers down my throat and i’m gagging until these god **** butterflies find their way out of my cavernous stomach
you aren’t allowed to laugh when i walk through your door with cold taco bell and red cheeks because i’m nervous
you've never seen this freckle before, you don't know my new favorite song
you rest your arms on my legs and move closer to me and we both scream because we’re gonna puke, butterflies
i ask you for a glass of water and you should ask me to leave
trembling, you don’t even use a coaster
i take a sip and stare at the tupperware on the floor, i taste dishwasher soap and it is almost enough to scare these butterflies who used to remain dormant right out of my ******* gut
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 8:16 PM UTC
Shadow of the past,
echo of the future;
dedicated Musician,
a Phonomancer;
and inspired Philosopher,
a Philosomancer.
A Mystic and a Metalhead,
a lifetime Scholar and a self-Teacher;
a determined and self-guided mythic Artist,
a psychologist and an Observer;
I am a Lover, a Father, and a Son,
a homeowner and a Dishwasher,
a Friend and a bit of a stoner,
a social drinker and a fan of quality Spirits;
I am a self-contained Universe
contained within another Universe;
so fractal-esque.
There is much to this being I call "me"
and so little of it is visible
from the surface of my awareness;
so much of it falls within-
within the limitless void;
to be revealed only in Time,
and, to be unraveled by Time.
Discerning, yet reckless,
a wise man and a fool;
I find myself within,
and within myself,
a beautifully chaotic dance
of chaotically diverse energies.
Within:
the Spirit of a Renaissance Man;
Music, Geometry, Cosmology,
Mathematics, Statistics, Physics,
Mythology, Musicology, Psychology,
Masculine, Feminine, Canine, Feline,
Light, Dark, Day, Night, Sun, Moon,
Anthropology, Cooking, Dreams,
*** Love, Lust, and Suffering,
Spirituality, Science, Language,
Contrast, Respect, Individualist,
Intuition, Feeling, Understanding,
Action, Non-Action, Elation,
a bit of a Goth and a Hippie,
a Rocker and a Composer,
Haphazard Attention to Detail,
Conscious, Shadow, Subconscious,
Id, Ego, Super-Ego,
Animal, Human Being.
Alive.
Mortal.
Mortal,
and grateful for it.
An aspiring,
amateur Shaman
who "shows promise";
dabbling in Feng Shui,
the Occult,
T'ai Chi,
the Tao, Zen,
Music,
Art,
and Life;
a dilettante Poet;
I am an ephemeral expression,
a temporary microcosm,
of both the Human Spirit
and the very Universe
in which we occur,
if for but a brief,
beautiful,
fleeting,
moment.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 12:13 AM UTC
Have you ever felt that your life is wrong?
Like you're suppose to be somewhere else?
Like while you're mopping the floor of your lowly dishwasher job your vision blurs and the world around you convulses turning the mop into a spear swirling the sea of bubbles into blood and the far off voice of your boss mutates into the sound of your fellow warrior?
Or maybe when you walk into rain and the soft sound of the droplets on your skin turn into the rhythmic music of things against armor.
And as you look to make sit you're not going crazy the roar of an engine turns into the bellowing of dragons, horses and more.
These flashbacks transport you to another time where the world is mystic,
The pavement transmutates into dirt as the air around swirls into sudden shrills of strengthening speeches spurring you soulfully into skillful battle.
And as you speed forward leading the charge
of your battalion of skilled men a thousand large,
The flashback stops and you're in your time,
No armor on you skin..
Or lives on the line..
But your heart is still racing,
And you remember their names,
Of the boys you were leading,
On to glory and fame,
So was it a dream?
Or a memory from the past?
Or maybe it was from your life last.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
Take your thoughts to the sink,
Pile them all up with the plates,
Grimy and greasy
Just like your mind
Which you can scrub all you want
With a sponge or a foam
Since there's no difference
Above sea level,
But the residues will remain
Staining your perfect little machine,
Robotic, malfunctioning,
Because manpower is always better
Than a cold bin
Where it is just you
Echoing your asking everything
Except for what you want
Because cowardice and pride
Are the oil of your psychomotor,
Running,
Missing,
Out on those
Who really don't need you in their lives,
Let alone
To do their dishes,
If ever, in case,
So what the hell are you still doing,
Waiting for the suds to drain,
Don't **** your brain
Like this,
Get a pen
And replace the dishwashing liquid
With real poison.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
If only you’d done the washing up
I wouldn’t be slamming plates into the sink
Half sobbing
Half seething
Stubbornly burning my hands on water that’s too hot
Angrily scrubbing at three day old tomato sauce
And bits of chips and jumbo sausage that have welded themselves to the plate
If only you’d done the washing up
We could have *** later
But we can’t now
Because I’ll be too tired and bitter after doing the washing up
Again
Do you think I like washing up?
Don’t you think I’d rather be sitting on the sofa
Watching crap on the telly
Safe in the knowledge that the sink is empty
The plughole is clean
And the worktops are sparkling
I bet Beyonce doesn’t have to do the washing up
I bet she has a dishwasher
If only you’d done the washing up
You wouldn’t need to call me childish
For getting worked up over something as silly as the washing up
And I wouldn’t be standing here wondering
If you’ll ever really get it
“It’s only the washing up” you say
Exactly
So just ****** well do it next time
********
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 11:58 AM UTC
Dishes dishes dishes
stopping me from getting
too big for my britches
Morning noon or night
piles of dishes
in plain sight
I needed a dishwasher
to help me be free
Turns out the dishwasher
has to be me
Pots pans measuring cups
pizza plates into the suds
Extra moisturizer rubber gloves
dishes are not one of my favorite loves
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC
The Breakfast Fairies (a humorous treatise)
Summoned for to break the fast
of sleep-and-dreams that can no longer last,
As the clock to noon draws nigh,
I happily paddle off to the cabinet
Where the cereals that I CHOSE,
Since I am now a grownup,
faithfully await, calm and in repose.
The refrigerator, in nearby proximity,
sources a Stony-field yogurt,,
A yogurt that I CHOSE,
light and sweet with processed fruit,
due to the miracle of Aspartame.
Distracted, back to the kitchen for
Some multi-grain slices to hail and toast,
Which I prefer dry (no butter)
and ready for anointing with oils of
Strawberry jelly.
To the table return ready to sound
The horn of plenty,
When I see the ****
Breakfast Fairies have struck yet again!
Cousins first to those that reside in nearby dishwasher*
The nefarious fairies guard my health
tho nobody asked them too!
My Crispix, with its malty sweetness,
And the ***** aftertaste of sprayed-on "enriched vitamins,"
has been smothered neath layers of
Granola, with cranberries and nuts,
Contaminated with a hint of cinnamon.
My processed yogurt,
vanished, without a trace,
replaced by their bacterial cousins from Thrace,
which is in Greece,
who, tho white, taste like plain yogurt sourpusses,
Even when littered with blueberries,
Nothing can replace the taste of my
Artificial Sweetener!
Dry toast has been sheeted and shined neath
A tribute of fattening butter,
rationalized by a commonality,
"Everything is better with butter..."
The last indignity is that my coffee,
Not the light brown I cherish
When kissed by whole milk,
Now muddled and muddied by skim milk, so named,
Cause they skim off all the taste.
Because they are fairies,
With fluttering wings,
Hasty retreat they beat,
But I know where they hide.
The next time it be for the morning meal,
I will eat it in bed,
far from their kitchen hiding places,
And celebrate my heroics with original
Frosted Flakes and milk,
And extra sugar just for spite!
The bedroom fairies, living under the pillow,
Emerge to beg in iambic pentameter,
Won't get nary a bite,
Until they they return the poems they stole
From my midnight dreams.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 12:08 PM UTC
End,
The True Tip of my Tongue,
(Enchanted Bronchial Tree),
holding out the
Cavern of Soft Sultry Silhouettes
that hug the walls.
Clinging to their influence able nature,
tendency to allow pink purity
to fall
to the black blistering blasphemy
of dirty-watered bongs.
Inhaling the Damnation of god
And Magic Meal of
Those residing in Gehenna,
Limbo,
And those scouring the pearly whites of
heaven for their 72 ******
***** Calls.
The desperate stench
Of religion
crawling down
my needy trachea
to attach its
sticky suction cup sermons,
trying to trick
My larynx into
Hallelujah’s
And
Hail Mary’s.
Hoping repetition
will etch it into
our subconscious
like a gravestone
set in stone.
So repent,
saunter back into your pen little sheep.
False Anarchic Prophet,
Pretend Goat.
Throw your brain back into the box,
The Individuality Dishwasher,
They built for your mind from the
Start.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 3:19 AM UTC
Of ***** roasting pans and racks and island fog!
*if you love me, then you know poems wright themselves when standing, driving, bus riding, ********** and especially when
doing manly battle, ******* ***** dishwashing midst island fog
a passing remark goes noticed and summoned to a
Friday night feast, roasted fowl, wild rice with golden raisins and mushrooms, English spring peas, was it a Montrachet?
for dessert the washing up is obligation mine, a traditional desertion,
separation of church and state, her cooking a church in which I worship, she states eloquently:
“Unto Caesaria , Render Her the cleanup”
this is hand to hand combat, no dishwasher mechanical
can scrub like the human hand, and with body english,
water hot, but no gloves employed for this is ***** man’s work,
not for sissies, cleaning roasting pans and roasting racks
that are at least twenty years burnt and crusted with a blackened
finish, residue of other lovers and dinners P.N. (pre-nat)
array three kinds of sponges and some human & metallic *****
no one asking which came first,
the scrubbing away of life feasting residues,
or the poem writing that comes with pre & postscript sleepiness
when I say the dark stains and the grease buildup are
flavor enhancers, am beknighted with starry stares of
“how stupid do you think I am?” and sadly return to the
Battle of Agincourt, the one the American lost….*
but they do source poems that flavor life
2020
Jul 17, 2021
Jul 17, 2021 at 11:54 AM UTC
I love the quick ***** of china cutlery when I close the plastic dishwasher
And the comforting sizzle
of the butter, which sun bursts
in the pan, as you are frying our dinner.
I love the way you say 'Nah'
and the way
my heart's pace
Increases at your sight.
I love the way the steamy light
makes shapes and shadows
on your face
as we lie together on grass.
I love the slam
of the front door after a rain day
and the lock
of our eyes
in the hall way.
I love mundane high croak
of the curtains
when I peal
them back as if I am
opening my eyes
for the first time.
Opening to see you;
China cutlery,
butter,
my steamy light,
and rain.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 2:55 AM UTC
The phone rings:
It doesn't work anymore.
Diazepam, Red wine, 6:30am, hip replacement,
Plunger, television, boxes of photos, carslberg, peroni,
The flush is broken on the toilet.
I've sat for 15 minutes.
Examination, xbox, unemployment, skunk,
Washing machine, dishwasher, dryer.
It's raining, Old towel and bucket
under the hole in the roof
Cat food, cod liver oil, mould, 8:45pm,
3pm, appointments, 12pm.
Laptop, silence, phone calls,
Toilet, bucket, bleach,
Oven cleaner, kitchen roll, dirt, carpet,
Television, Hoover,
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 8:35 AM UTC
Coffee in hand
Bob observes from
Behind self imposed bamboo roller shades
Sun launch’s everyone’s day
Road, runway, path, sailboats just out of reach
Too hot, cold, dark, bright, wet, dry
Need to eat something
Breakfast most important meal of the day
Nothing to wear
Need a haircut already
Sink so ***** what if someone saw
Run dishwasher or wash by hand
How did the fan get ***** again
Gas $3.09 a gallon
What if there is a break in
Tomorrow will be Better
Just know it Will
STOP
Turn Around
That’s what Friends Do
Feb 2, 2011
Feb 2, 2011 at 3:37 AM UTC
A Bountiful Sky for Foolish Old Men
early up, haunted-stoked~woked by a multilingual sky,
an impish childish creation of an immature god,
inconsistently incapable, of making up his moody mind,
whiny then smiley, cloudless besotted, morphed
into crystalline blue of a well behaved in Sunday best,
warming the souls of the begotten and the misbegotten,
the hardened and the poetic souls, tho he laughs at
himself, for he too is both, curmudgeon and a mr. softee,
whiny child in rapid aging body, wearing of discovery
of new places for to ache, pains that don’t fit med scales
of 1~10, unless it is the Richter Earthquake formulation.
despite all, his eyeballs seethe, immaculate degeneration still
allows the seeing of broad brush paint strokes of the team of
angelic artistes that do the detailing of the palette above,
how!
they, love their big bold brushes that sky swipe atmospheric
residue into 31 Baskin Robbins flavors, with swirls of caramel
chocolate butterscotch that make the man’s complaints whisked
into who-cares-a-damn anyway ice creamery reverie and all
that other stuff disbarred from the aborning morning clarity of
“good morning ole man, where’s my coffee” diurnal tuning that
the women hums, reminding those in the earshot crowd of one,
that s’mores and chores, tasks and at lasts, dogs need walking, gardens watering, cushions plumping, evening dishes moving from dishwasher onto wallpaper-covered shelves, geese-away-chasing, and loving poetry
by a poetoftheway scribbling…
8:01 AM Frieday, Jun 30
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 8:32 AM UTC
I never come here, you understand,
I'm of a higher social class,
But my washer dryer has broken down
And has left me without a single gown.
My dishwasher works fine and my wine rack is full,
But still, expensive washer dryers can breakdown
And make a lady frown.
I've got someone coming to fix it
(We have our washer dryer insured),
I should really get a new one but it's been really rather good...
It's always washed away the stains of fancy food.
Fellow launderer please understand -
as you look rather tough -
I won't judge you if you don't judge,
So let us wash our clothes in unspoken harmony
And make my inconvenience as unawkward as it can be.
But to my shame my snobbish mind assumes the worst;
That every rushing washer
Is thrusting clothes into the machines hurriedly,
Because they've all been on a killing spree.
Now the drying is almost done,
I can leave you with your dreary woes of working life and sleepless nights,
And go right home to dispose of that gun.
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 10:24 AM UTC
Going Off To War (a/k/a Washing The Dishes)
When its time to wash the dishes,
I make proper preparations for this serious business,
I strip down to my skivvies (shorts, in a prior generation)
Cause there will plenty blood and gore afore too long
Soap and water flying about, the ceilings and the walls,
Not to mention big, big puddles on the floor.
Multi-colored sponges of sizes varied,
Some Brillo-sided, like extra armor on a tank,
By Dawn's early light, turn the clear water
Into a heaving, breathing soapy concoction.
Woebegone and woe betide, dried and sticky maple syrup,
You are no match for super-strength orange dishwashing solution,
Of the Greeks did praise, a single dollop packs a mighty wallop!
Ain't afraid of any stain, decomposing, half chewed, culinary rejection.
Don't even bother with rubber gloves, cause that's for sissies.
The dirtier the better, cause I love the sounds of
All out war, the rushing water, the futile screams of
Grease departing this world, down the rabbit hole,
My gleaming, victorious sinking of the enemy shipping
You think I am the first to celebrate in verse
This storied fight of right over dirt?
Recall please this famed couplet, for now be known its true inspiration!
"Oh, say can you see by the Dawn's early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?"
Though Men Like to Load the Dishwasher (You Didn't Know?)
Is another poem of a similar ilk, when technology is unavailable,
It is fact verifiable and unassailable,
That if you give a man some room and some privacy,
Ignore the shouts and war cries from the kitchen emanating,
Male aggression can best be expiated,
When playing war games in the kitchen, a live action movie,
A video game that never grows tiresome,
And violence is necessary, for the enemy's complete annihilation.
Thank you my dear, no medal need be awarded,
Scored this poem as my just reward.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 12:23 PM UTC
A bill becomes a law through a process not unlike wet clay curing in the sun, seasonal labor filling the fields in springtime, a drop of sweat absorbed thirstily into a towel, a stain spreading across a tablecloth.
A bill becomes a law eventually, but often, not in time. A bill often fails on the floor, as do some people, as does, just as often,
the attempt to revive them. The attempt looks an awful lot
like a senator's face, energetic and gray and doomed and
looking for any advantage
when the needed advantage is in the ether
and still immaterial until the tenth of February.
I notice the bumper stickers, and I've deputized a Google Alert
to tell me that the popular mass is wakening.
I can also tell when it yawns,
or prods a rib for a pain that wasn't there yesterday.
I can tell when the popular mass has slept funny.
I can tell when it would rather not wake up at all
but the light is streaming in through the window
and the house is full of the sound of the dishwasher.
Pain on both sides, in both ribs, ignored
because sometimes it just happens - pain,
that is - and is a part of getting older,
like how you can't put peppers in your chili anymore
now that they don't grow on this side of the planet,
and there's nobody left to tend them.
I would like somebody to tend me, too,
but the law that sanctions that workforce
is still in committee, and mired in a dispute
about who deserves love.
This one goes out to all of those lying on their kitchen floor
once everyone is out of the house, lifting their legs and placing them on the countertop, listening to their heart ticking
and trying to discover if it reaches everywhere, if they can hear it
in their ankles.
This one goes out to their savings accounts and their kneecaps.
Here's hoping they make it.
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 4:08 PM UTC
There is no shame, in moving back with your parents.
To them you still smell of diapers and the time you puked jelly beans all over the back of the car after you tilt-a-whirled your “I’m a big girl” attitude into giggles.
Around them you still clumsily tip over you own puberty when they ask you to clean your room.
You’re still in college. And that diploma on your wall is still less of an accomplishment, than when you suddenly discovered your thumbs.
So, how do you cope with the baby talk condescension scribbled over directions to empty a dishwasher properly?
1) Realize this is just temporary. You have till you’re at least 40 to fix this.
2) Clean your room of all the embarrassing childish evidence (i.e. N’Synch Posters, Pokemon Cards, Ect) . When CSI comes in they will just assume you were visiting.
3) Take long, long walks far, far away from your residence. Preferably the woods, so you may not run into any high school nemeses.
4) Pray you can get laid by someone, your age. Preferably someone you have not had any prepubescent encounters with already.
5) Eat all the free food you can.
With theses steps you can safely avoid pulling out your own fingernails with the self-loathing hiding under your bed.
Do not let it fill your Pog champion hands with delusions that you have failed to tie your own shoes, let alone pay your own taxes or get married.
Might as well give up those big girl pants and open lid cups and go back to Sesame Street and ******** in your own pants.
This…
Is only temporary.
You must say.
A temporary walk through the woods. Praying to lay down relax, and enjoy the air you are still eating.
This is only temporary.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 11:14 PM UTC