"dishwashing" poems
I like hearing you talk about Mozart
Because it means you’re listening.
His piano keys are no different from mine.
I like hearing you talk about Mozart.
I used to play his pieces before I sleep.
His arpeggio is my lullaby;
His laughter, a sombre tune to which I tune
My keys.
There’s no denying that you like Mozart;
Never mind his spending habit.
I sometimes think you are Mozart.
I think Beethoven was fad gone true because
He was deaf to his laughter,
And Schubert was too old, too young to remember
How to step on the pedals
While he tried his many operas
On his baby grand piano.
I think of Mozart in my sleep, in my dreams,
On the toilet, while eating.
I think of Mozart and his young son
And the requiem he stood dying to finish.
Mozart became a
One night stand, and I am not proud of that.
I majored in advertising, God knows why, and maybe
Mozart had something to do with that.
I factored one and two equals the sign of what digit,
And maybe Mozart had something to do with that.
I wrote a story once,
About a starving artist;
Maybe he was the force behind that.
I filled my library with fiction,
And fiction became a running schedule for me.
Maybe Mozart had something to do with that.
I’ve grown roots and sprouted horns listening to Bach;
I don’t think Mozart knew that.
But it was the size of the shoe that never fit me in third grade,
And the roots run as deep as a well of Hope grown asunder.
I knew Mozart would not like that.
And it was holy.
We are holy.
He was holy.
Mozart was holy. Mozart was holy.
Mozart was holier than a cow gunned for meat turned to steak
And corned beef on my breakfast sandwich.
Mozart was holier than a dishwashing paste advertisement
That promises oil free, squeaky clean Experience.
Mozart was more than a religious façade played in the sala
Of some affluent geeky teenager’s house
Where no one bothers to eat the garnishing.
Mozart was holier than Bach, Chopin, Stravinsky, Wagner.
His flute promised a princess to remain priceless.
Mozart was holier than Salieri.
Mozart knew better than Salieri.
Mozart played better than Salieri,
And he got the better of Salieri when Antonio himself said,
**** that Austrian ****** who plays, lives and howls like a show monkey.
**** this court.
**** this Emperor who can hardly keep together his fingers to play.
**** Austria.
**** Vienna.
**** this era of opera played in German that hardly sells a ticket.
**** this requiem and this boy,
This mad man, pint sized and hardly put together like a china doll.
**** this piano, and to hell with his lovers.”
I saw Mozart once. He waved at me.
I turned and looked away because I was listening to you talk about Mozart.
And I like hearing you talk about Mozart
Than Mozart talking about
Himself.
Apr 20, 2012
Apr 20, 2012 at 6:46 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
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
There is a consumer product demon
in the trash underneath my sink.
The other day, I tossed in a wrapper
from a Quest 20-protein-gram nutrition bar
and a hand reached up to grab it.
Thinking I was daydreaming
I pulled out the white plastic Rubbermaid trash basket;
no hand, but the ¼ cup of Kraft Fast Mac
tossed in yesterday was moving, undulating.
It made a distinct voice-y sound
like “You’ll like Mac-a-lot, so eat me!”
Thinking this was just my overactive poetic imagination
I turned to the sink.
My JetZScrubber had wrapped around a spoon
dancing in circles around the In-Sink-Erator drain
while the Ajax Easy-Hands Dishwashing Liquid spewed bubbles
in unison.
Now convinced I took too much acid in college
I ran upstairs where my dog Mr. Brown sleeps
on his 44” x 36” leopard-print GoodDogBed.
“Howdy, partner,” Brown chimed.
“Sure is a fine day to go for a walk
using that Halti multi-loop leader and Sprenger prong collar.
Yes, I love ‘em.”
I took Mr. Brown to the dog park.
the one with the Safe-Steel chain link fence
and the pine trees without labels.
He pooped in the sawdust and vocalized
in his hound voice.
I could have sworn he said,
“Glad I didn’t do that on the L.L.Bean Woven Nylon Area Rug,”
but I wasn’t sure.
Nothing moved
except the wind in the trees.
and I wondered what to call it.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 7:09 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
I show up and plug my music in to the ***** stereo on the rack by the dishwashing station, and the first song that comes on is Misanthrope by the band Death. Just then, the head chef comes back to greet me for the night's work:
"How are you tonight?"
"Death Metal, Sir. How are you?"
"I'm pretty Rock and Roll myself, thank you."
And we both went about our respective business via our respective genres.
It's incredibly nice to be able to see eye to eye, even through airs of facetiousness.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 10:51 AM UTC
The TV contains budding romances
and break ups
and new lovers and mistresses of
hundred celebrities that made you
believe that the world
is a merry place.
You made songs for your lover
and poems and recited and sing those
on the platform in a social media before an audience
who would believe that
your relationship is a
merry go round one.
But the world is not a merry place
and relationships are not actually spotless like
plates in a dishwashing liquid commercial
on a TV that does not exist for the people in Bakwit
who fled their lands and walked three hours
under the scorching sun as their
three month old infants dived in
thirst and hunger and mothers
and fathers were murdered and gun-fired
in brazen daylight.
The TV contains budding romances
of celebrities that made you recite love poems
and hugots on this very platform
as you continue your quest of finding
a fling or lament on your unrequited love.
You do this
You
do
this
while out there
out
there
the world does not revolve in a merry go round ride.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 6:17 AM UTC
Please put gloves on
before you touch me
grab them off the counter
plastic dripping yellow
wet from dishwashing
I don't mind
the creaking sound
of plastic trying to stick
to my skin
your touch is dangerous
too full of his memory
no longer can anyone
touch me
please put gloves on
to protect you
to protect me
I'm sorry
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 4:56 PM UTC
I like to enjoy washing dishes
so it doesn’t become a chore,
as living is for enjoying
and I seek to enjoy every moment
of being alive,
even washing dishes!
But how to enjoy washing dishes?
I focus
on enjoying the experience
of the present-moment,
like meditation.
I enjoy cleaning my dishes
to protect me from disease
and keep me healthy.
I enjoy the feeling
of warm water on my hands
as I rinse the dishes before washing.
I enjoy the rhythm and sound of squeaking
the sponge makes as it scrubs the dishes.
I enjoy feeling
the smooth texture
of the ceramic dishes.
I enjoy exploring the shape
of every dish with my hands as I wash.
I enjoy
seeing my reflection
in the stainless-steel spoons
as I wash
enjoying the experience.
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 7:37 AM UTC
on minimum wage, you can expect
minimum work, yet it seems miniwage
employers often demand so much. dish
-do is meditation... but 7 hours straight
without a scheduled break (illegal!)
comes to be strangely therapeutic and
unjust. my colleagues are more-than
-decent.. they're especially strange, especially
kind. the no-break hides itself in small-biz
dialect as to owners barely break-even on
weekly basis due, most likely, to competition
from corporate conquistadors like McDonald's
and Denny's.. the evil colonial powers of America
looking to slowly realize manifest destiny in empty
faceless formatted 'buy me's I'm cheaps' my boss
is a failed artist, and one of the first things he said to
me was this: *dishwashing ain't gonna cut it if you're
really going to become a writer. I mean, don't up and
quit on me, that'd **** me off and all.. but in the end,
if you're gonna be successful at your art, you have to
be willing to sacrifice everything.* he echoed the
painful decision factor facing every challenged, authentic
soul.. and I knew he was right. someday I would have to
forget security-fear and embrace insecurity-love if I want
to become who I am.
everything must go.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 5:34 PM UTC
all right,
that sounded like good advice
Put your room in order first
and then your thoughts
Sure
He started looking around the room
for things that were
to be thrown and things that were
misplaced
There were a few
There was a broken snowboard
on his bed
It had the image of a naked girl
painted along
he slept with it at night
and would often find himself placing
his lips over hers
and licking at her slim, long neck
She had to go
It was time to get rid of her
and break out of this
ridiculous lifestyle
He grabbed it
Looked at the girl for a good minute
and decided to place the snowboard
under his bed
He knelt
by the side of the bed and looked
under
Alas, she had no room in there
There was the forgotten cave of
dead gods
he no longer thought about
And it was full
There were body pillows with
brown stains
Hardened socks
Doll heads
A teddy bear with a hole carved between
the legs
A drinking glass stuffed with
dishwashing sponges wrapped in plastic bags
Magazines with crumpled pages
Pictures printed on A4 paper
Sealed jars that contained small figurines
covered by a thick, brown substance
like melted wax
Those were the gods of nights
long past
They had their share of his worshiping
and had been abandoned
to rot away
There was simply no more room
for the present god
to be disposed of
“Funny,” he said
looking at her from above. “It's like
all the ones who came before you
had passed down their blessings
onto you. I… I am sorry I tried to get
rid of you, love. I’m such a fool! Don’t
strike me down, please. I’ll… I can only
try to make up for it.”
He placed the snowboard back on
the bed and
ripped two pieces from a paper towel
and placed them over the middle
of the snowboard
where the painted girl’s nakedness was exposed
He pulled his pants down
and mounted her
Rubbed his ***** against the
paper towels
and showered the girl’s face with
kisses
while apologizing and shedding tears
for wronging her so much
By the time he came he
felt forgiven
and cleaned the stains that made it past
the papers with his mouth
Jul 9, 2021
Jul 9, 2021 at 5:37 AM UTC
I am surviving only
Through midnight dishwashing
Submerging my amygdala in soapy water
Trying to scrub it clean
Listening to los campesinos! so I don’t have to hear the water rush
Or taste the bubbles on my tongue-
My life only makes sense with a soundtrack.
But in all my favourite albums
There’s a skip on the record
I must have dropped a stitch somewhere in the fabric of my self-determination
In the dam that would have stopped this flood of bitter glitter tears
Maybe there’s something missing in the lining of my soul
Because I’m happy.
I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.
And yet there’s still the catch in my throat
The lingering sense of not seeming like myself
I’m shadowboxing my demons that are smaller than the mountains I’ve conquered
And yet
How do you **** a thing unseen?
A thing that creeps on the edges of my vision
In every blind spot
I don’t know what I’m fighting so I don’t know how to fix it.
I am surviving only
Through midnight dishwashing
And one way phone-call wishes to a god of self delusion
And doubt
Self-sabotaging from the inside out
Relying on chip shop philosophy to get from one minute to the next
And yet I don’t remember what you told me.
It occurs to me
That maybe my demons are dead
And perhaps I am fighting
Myself.
The parts that don’t live up to the lies I tell to sell my soul to every passing stranger.
You see, I know
That there’s nothing to cry about;
Or that there’s everything to cry about
But it’s not the stuff I’d write poems about
War and famine and plague oh disease
This festering something that’s inside of me.
Cut out a pound of rotting flesh to pay my debt to art
Cut out every dead piece of me, cut out my failing heart.
May 15, 2019
May 15, 2019 at 1:10 PM UTC
piling up
stacks of dishwashing rags and **** dreary eyed
finger numbing click clicks to get it done
clock calling out to the morning scolding
piling up
adding up to a bunch of ****
do the math
chances given taken and failed and smoked up to the very tips of fingers burned and charred and awoken from the bitter numbness
piling up
me. clothes. cigarettes. books of poetry. failures. disappointments. showers not taken. time since i last saw you. higher higher ~higher~
forgetting the social norms and dynamics of how i say this and you that
lying on my bed shirtless defiance you wild little thing
fantasies. ash. honeyrose menthols. bridge bridge the gap between my fingers and your lips. your lips and my lips. your ember with mine. light me.
-this is the most i’m gonna get-
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
What is a choice, anyway -
is it a freedom, or is it a burden?
For me,
it is a paralysis
between what is and what should be.
Who I am,
who I should be...
who I could be.
Choice opens up possibilities -
endless, unfathomable possibilities.
Choice is making a decision
I am not qualified to make.
In a world where manipulation is rewarded,
marginalisation is profited upon,
and freedom of choice is weaponised -
I’m not sure I feel free.
Where your freedom to choose
now carries with it the responsibilities of greedy oil companies,
tech giants,
and toxic product producers.
It is the irony of being forced into a system
that tells you:
you chose to be here,
It’s your fault!
You drank the highly addictive Kool-Aid
we forced down your throat,
and that addiction -
is your fault!
We are persuaded into thinking our choices are casual,
while they are anything but.
I relinquish my freedom to choose.
Instead,
I search for the freedom of simplicity -
where a choice becomes personal once again.
What clothing mood am I in today?
What do I feel like eating this morning?
How shall I spend my Sunday afternoon?
What’s my body telling me about this social interaction?
In lieu of...
Whose opinion should I base my personality on?
What can I justify as a “healthy” amount of time spent on social media?
Which chickens had the happiest lives?
What dishwashing liquid is the least toxic?
Yes -
I crave the simplicity of what is,
not what could be.
Often, I envy the unbothered-ness of the breeze -
sometimes going this way,
sometimes going that way.
Completely unconcerned with the junction between directions -
simply following its set course.
Dec 1, 2024
Dec 1, 2024 at 8:37 PM UTC