Stained tea kettle howled
almost as loud as we did
one cool November night
leaving us trapped between
boredom and curiosity.
Stale bread and ripped jeans
turning us into something more
then five strangers with too much time
and too little money in our hands.
It didn't matter how many scars covered our wrists
because for a moment they didn't exist
through our bloodshot eyes.
Clarity and time became dim
as lights faded along with my mind
because soon I would find
my hands inside yours without a word
and slowly things seemed to fall apart
as months of wary burdened our hearts
because we couldn't quite forget the night
we turned from strangers to lovers
the questions never answered seemed to linger
that led us to crumble
as quickly as the brownie between my fingers.

my intention is
to create this
uncomfortably wonderful
unsterilized environment
get high off the light
of seventy small fires
fall in love with the kind
that could **** for hire
get a job buy ****
keep it quiet then expire
nil in its entirety
fluid in its movement.

this is textual ambiguity
the rest is inaffectual
doses of good old
uhmerican ingenuity
like conceptual moses
roaming thru the
******* desert for
forty years

leave him alone
he doin his thang.

he's tryna find his consciousness
truant from the ensuing madness
nothing here is as it seems still
I promise you there
ain't **** to fear.

the people want
consumable truth
available for daily use;
they like being choked
& smoking the cracks
in the broken mirrors
also know as home.

a single empty room
& it doubles as a tomb.

how queer.

I have met Masters and OGs
within joint commissions.
While my dear, Granddaddy Purple’s
spending my tuition.

But, it was merely a Blue Dream
at blunt ceremonies.
While Hindus and Afghans breed in
holy matrimonies.

Look at all of Mary Jane's strains,
I want to be like them;
stuck pondering my bud's embrace
and all’the broken stems.

Reuniting the Skywalker's
was quite like the Death Star
far out, in space and burns fast like
Sour Diesel’s quick car.

I rode the Pineapple Express,
then I hit the Train Wreck.
Lights out! The conductor demands
that we have our pipes checked.

Look at all of Mary Jane's strains,
I have plenty of them,
still pondering my bud's embrace
and all’the broken stems.

My bud's came less often and I
became less credible.
I told my bud Bubba that we
should switch to edibles.

“But, you can't eat these sweets unless
the treat's gradual high
stops your bud’s from disappearing.
You need me to get by!”

Where are all of Mary Jane's strains?
I need some more like them;
losing the embrace of my bud’s
and all’the broken stems.

All my buds have vacated me.
All that's left is Reggie
and Mid, who aren't like my kind buds;
they’re leaving me edgy.

I’m hanging with Mid and Reggie
hoping they'll come around
But now, even they’re gone, and I
have lost what was once found.

The strains of Mary Jane are gone.
I can't live without them!
I dream to see my bud's once more
and all’the broken stems.

You give me simple pleasure,
As I bite into your inner layer.
I love you in the morning
In between a bagel,
Sometimes with bacon.

In the afternoon,
By a salad’s side you sit,
With my favorite edibles-
Arugula, red peppers, fresh peas,
Black and green olives,
Topped with chicken, cheese,
Sesame vinaigrette, and,
A few croutons for crunch.

You are an Egg, but so much more.

The texture and depth of your yolk,
Sublime and sumptuous;
Your outside solid, yet undefined;
Balancing textures with what’s inside.

Egg,
You are truly
Divine.

After a tiny nap I woke up,
And gave the curtain drapes a push-up,
Just to witness how they were torn-up.

I had no clue on who did it,
I doubted my brother cutting it a bit
Thinking it is a chit!

Then I had to spare him,
Because he was at the gym.
And then I saw my window open to view,
And suspected the squirrel anew.

Thus came the huge conspirator,
The squrriel, the top operator
Who tore my curtain drapes
Thinking they were edibles!

And now, I here my mother call,
Who is going to enter my room, so tall,
I don't know how I am going to tell her all,
For the squirrel tore my curtain; though small
Now I need to manage the brawl.

i get ****** up
so i can forget the hurt
i'm sitting here dizzy
i don't know where to go

i pick up my phone
and stare at your name
but i know you won't answer my call

i'm dead asleep when you wake me up
i always answer
and you don't even say hello
you just do some ****** up ****
and hang up the phone

but tonight i won't answer
your late night calls
i won't let my heart race
to the shrills of your ringtone

my heart is racing with the pumping of my veins
the pounding in my finger tips
the hot ring of fire around my eyes
the thrill of knowing i'm ****** up
and not off of you

i won't answer you anymore
i know you don't care
what i do to myself anymore
if i'm ****** up, i'm just ****** up

just stop calling me when your girlfriends asleep
waking me from my vicious dreams
because you decided to remember me

Where I live, you see, is the future
which nobody saw coming but me,

and I guarantee, its truth,
I consider ants sentient, indeed.

I cringe for my imaginary Jain friends,
I just smashed another dozen scouting sugar ants,

and I sang to them as I did,
hoping their tiny antennae
knew the deal,
we throw ant-edibles in rodent safe containers,
out past the edge
of the motion sensors,
ants of all common sorts are welcome.

- because our fire ants have some how mellowed
- since arriving from Texas
on waves of dread… fire ants,
maybe that kind never got here. any way
- now, we live with them and all the others
- on the edge of the eastern pacific
- super colony that has no war
- on its inner or outer edges.

But one must consider ants
as sapient sentients,
senders of signals, wireless radio,
wee-tiny antennae vibes,
to sing a song ants can translate that says,
This human says: I shall **** all you send to my kitchen.
It is a thought song, you think it, as you ****.
You might try it if, you consider
ants are not just pests, but
interesting life tools, for living in dirt
with no screens, lack so obvious it is
noticed by any with attention to antennae
as intense as
that that of Everest Pax, who in April began his sixth year…
Now, who
can hold the ant mind
long enough to imagine the queen,
with Ender-vision?
Through the eyes that watched me **** the scouts,
and signal boundaries to the Queen.

Going with the flow
Is against the Crow's style

Wondering about looking for edibles
To shove in his snout

He caws to his community
When there is a lot to be had

Calling out quickly
When things turn bad

A bird of the air
He pays no fare

Alive and well
Sharing a comradeship

With the Pigeons
Whilst  dodging traffic

But more to his liking
His friend of the feather the Starling

These birds are not like those others
There is no going south for them

Winter through next Fall when the Crow isn't flying
He ***** his head and struts about standing tall

Isn’t it strange that the same bloodlust
Which feeds the *** drive, drives
Deep into one’s Egyptian appetite,
Feeds deep, deep around the campfire at night,
Flames of carnal desire: and by carnal, I mean
Literally a yearning for rib-eye steaks,
Pork sirloin & Horse Meat.
Horse meatballs.
Horse sausage.
Horse stew.
Hi-** Silver & Trigger,
Fury & My Friend Flicka, &
Lest we forget:  The Famous Mr. Ed.
Oh Wilbur, I'm talking about Horse Cuisine!
(God Bless the French!)
Dartagnan & Brigitte, typical post war
Parisians with slim pickens
(No relation to the actor)
Survivors with little to choose from
Whatever scroungy edibles offered on the pushcart.
The one good thing about those years, you might ask?
It was a jubilee time, a precursor to
Lean Cuisine & Weight Watchers
Jenny Craig & Nutrisystem, & the lovely
Marie Osmond looking especially edible lately
Having dropped a dumb-bell 50 pounds, yet
Still crammed tightly in Spanx.
“Hey Marie, it’s good to be the King!”
I am Mel Brooks ******* you,
From behind, History of the World: Part I.
Marie is looking  tasty, n'est–ce pas?
France after WWI and WWII: a starving time,
Yet ironically a meat-eater's ****.
The French Cavalry, no longer needed,
It meant liquidation of the local Lipizzaners,
War-weary, would-be Man o’ Wars,
Secretariats, Seattle Slews, & California Chromes,
Shot twice in the head,
Carcasses hung & butchered.
But I digress. Or do I?
MEAT: gives the same ecstatic rush as ***,
Carnival Season, a pre-Lenten animal s’morgasm,
Identical, as nourishing as, perhaps as
A horse of a different color: ***?
SEE ME/FEEL ME: ****** cheeks, dripping jowls;
Shredded flesh betwixt my teeth—oh yes!
I confess that among my forebears,
(Not to be confused with The Three Bears,
Which would, of course, be a whole 'nother story)
Somewhere ‘long the spiral helix
Was a seriously carnivorous naked ape,
Some troglodyte Alley Oop, evolving over Time,
Into a reptilian, puffed-up, junior broker,
Impressing some ***** 21 year-old
In some Chichi Manhattan bistro, trumping
The waiter's or waitress’s shopworn query with:
******!
A fresh ****:
****** & still warm.

So, tonight I learned a few things while hanging out with Anjali. She may not even realize she had me thinking as hard about the things she said as I actually am. She probably has no clue. But as we were hanging out she started talking about loneliness... her friend group... how summer has been utterly slow for her. How she can't wait to go back to college even though she'll miss her family.

It really got me thinking. I'm not the only one feeling alone. I'm not the only one feeling as if I have no one. I'm not being alone, alone. It made me feeling sympathetic.... mostly because I'd known exactly how she's been feeling.

This summer has been the longest yet. If compared to last summer, so much has changed. I mean, what did I expect? To move back and everything be just as it was last summer? I knew things would be different, but they're just SO MUCH MORE DIFFERENT than I thought. Angel just had a BABY. Like, my old time partner in crime, was now a mother. She now has a whole nother world to take care of. A whole nother life.

Justin doesn't live in Globe this summer. I dont know if he just didn't want to, or because living arrangements going from here to there were going to be more difficult if he moved back. I really don't know. I just know last summer he was completely in love with me, and by the way he texts me, he still is. But he has a girl friend now. And we did hangout last weekend. And if I hadn't gotten so ****** up on edibles, I could've paid more attention to him.

Other friends? Well, I don't really have any other friends. I have some family. That counts, kind of. There's kass and dominic, but they both live an hour and fifteen minutes away. And I mean, there's Kahlia. She's sweet and she says she trusts me so much, but like, will she answer if I call crying and broken? I just feel like she has so many other friends.

I wish I had a friend right now. This summer. A summer friend. Ya know? Someone to come with me even if it's just to put gas? Someone to eat nachos with? The more I talk about this, the more I think of Trevor. He was my summer friend at the beginning of the summer, until he moved. I wish I would've appreciated him more. I wish I had him back in globe because I seriously have no one to hangout with. I miss him so much. It's bringing me to tears thinking about this honestly. Noah too. We hungout at the beginning of summer and now when I need him, he's MIA. I give boys a little more leeway just because they're boys and they're not gonna be texting all the time, or bugging to hangout, but I wish they would. Jeremy made an effort for about a week to hangout with me, and now we hardly talk again.

Is something wrong with me? Do people get tired of me? Why don't I ******* have friends anymore? Why doesn't Daniel like me anymore?

Daniel. Yeah. I'm not sure if I'm crazy, or he's a ****. Either way I'm heart broken. He doesn't want me and now I have to block on twitter everything because my feelings are hurt, but that's just more of a reason for me to seem ******. Ugh. Maybe I am ******.

SUMMER MAKES ME FEEL LIKE ****

Life Is A Corned Beef Hash
          (A metaphor)

Life is a corned beef hash -
Or chicken, pork or any stash
Of edibles you have at hand.
If you are clever
You will use the cleaver
To make dishes
So delicious
Guests will never understand
With formulaic words
How to make the bouquet of accolades
Big enough.
(Wow!  That was pufferific!)

All you have to do is focus,
Be a tiny bit courageous,
Use a quantity of hocus pocus
So your genius
Can shine,
Your mine of treasure
The impromptu measure
                           of the moment.

Life Is A Corned Beef Hash 8.12.2017
A Sense Of the Ridiculous II;
Arlene Corwin
puffery – in case you didn’t know: exaggerated  praise; hyperbole.

Amidst the crowded globe there lies,
a pasture seen by the most common eyes.
There, glorious edibles are ripe;
and Eve's nectar we all delight.
Desire sends us searching for where it lies,
but vain when seeking pries.

Little words are worth
the emotion collected in tranquility.
At the gate of the orange groves,
the momentary event embraces me.
Fat hugs. Squeeze. Let go.

The main reason I've tried around five new recipes a week
and all of a sudden enjoy cooking
and the reason I've bitten my nails down to bone
and texted my good friends way too many times
fragmented and weeping with questions
and the reason I've listened to podcasts minute after minute
and audiobooks
and ******* Damien Rice's creepy voice saying the words *******
over and over again
and have a wishlist on every overpriced bohemian rag site
and entered multiple contests guessing Bon Jovi's lyrics
to win 50 dollars to Applebees
and the reason I drink red white and blue ****** can after can
after hours that end with "AM"
and the reason I don't feel like hearing my client's problems
and catch myself in fantasies about running away or climbing up into trees and staying there for months
and the reason I go to angry slam poetry events by myself
and watch Sarah Silverman crying on the television
and snorting coke
or scrub my gums until they bleed
to taste the iron with those perfectly prepared meals
I even thought about joining a meetup group
instead I just met up with my therapist and noticed she's wearing the same sweater I am
What the hell is she going to be able to do for me?
Take my seventy dollars and run
and I keep edibles harbored in the corner of my cheek
saving the ounces for the most destitute of moments
when I hear I have to eat lunch with my in-laws at Red Robin
and be blinded by their white supremacy
That's when I get ****** as ****
and find it all funny
and the reason I sprint into the woods at night and look up at the stars
sweaty and haunted
and the reason I keep "getting lost" on my way home from work
and stalk my ex-boyfriend's babies on Facebook
and wet the pages of Charles Bukowski
and then watch his documentary and scream at the TV in horror
and the reason I buy bags and bags of peanut butter stuffed pretzels
and my laugh sounds unnervingly different every day, as if my role keeps changing from **** to lesbian to raging feminist to kitschy wife lover to Eskimo to poet

is due to the fact that I am in a long distance relationship with my own life
my own soul
my screaming energy and robustness
my color
and craving.

sigh* a day later, when Saturday's mad pile of work was a memory, it literally tasted like water.  Now, how did that happen?  



(sonnet #MMMMDCXLIV)


Mists waft with curious fragrance' odd detail
Upon the creamy surface of those scents'
Brown claim of coffee in my mug, to fence
Thin hope with old chagrin as morning's pale
Light watches from its cloudy vantage' scale
Of truth, where ghostly layers shift oer pretense
And grey asks white to call it blue from thence,
My breakfast:  ***** dishes 'hind th'exhale.
It's nat'nal cereal day, so in a poor
Excuse I added Malt-O-Meal to do
The favours with our wonted pancakes, fer
A whopping stack of edibles.  Yes, two
Eggs, bacon, and a touch of fruit.  If you're
Still hungry, there's no coffee.  I love you.

07Mar15a

all i want to be in life is a bit of colonel tavington;
i executed loosing my mother
tongue and when i gripped
the new diacritic i earned a famous colonial greed,
even though i was lied to,
because polish diacritic was there in ś
while english was yorkshire nudist blank slacked
so i had to go back to augustus looking over my shoulder
utilising the d but not the ∂ like chiseling a v for a u in marble
to question the existence of parabolas easier.
i mean, i like that arrogant frown and i’ll admit it
unabashed into liking it, i want that ******* twinning
to pop that corn into popcorn for goo awe ah of the cinema goers.
i can be silent throughout the day,
but at night i lose the lazy drunk and soak the soap in carbonated
and bubble the words out: vengeance! thrill the jaw to munch on un-edible edibles! crack the bone **** the marrow!
all i want to be in life is a bit of colonel tavington,
very few sentiments for being loved and loved in private,
loved i can handle but only in the public domain
as prime antagonist.

Beautiful Whitetail bucks , resplendent in Winter coats , statuesque along the hillside , ever alert in morning fog , complacent in the heavy cover of the Georgia woodlands , courteously striking a pose at Dusk , quite aloof in my own front yard ..
A crown prince of the ruminant kingdom at the edge of suburbia , revealing their breath on cold Winter mornings , leaving their signatures with rub marks and snorts ..
Commanding the fields of Spring and Summer , gorging themselves on brown oats , green grass , blackberry , fig and wild plums ..
Our wondrous native 'Knights of Hill Country' , panning green , picturesque pastures at the close of day ,  grazing for edibles along quiet country lanes , peacefully bedding beside creekside , Sun warmed hayfield , placid pond and mirrored lake ..Along Moon lit valley's , apple orchards and fire breaks ..

not much of a story...
             it's only half past 10, and it's a saturday...
but i have two litres of dark *** with me,
and a bottle of hoisin sauce...
                       ****'s gonna get dangerous
   down in the kitchen...
                some pork is going to get slaughtered...
and if i get my hands on some
                                booker t. and the mg's?
       and then fry some rice, and add some eggs?
you're going to be talking to marlon brando...
without the cotton-***** stuffed into his cheeks
to speak, like he spoke, when filming
        the godfather...
                            could have smoked 20 packets
of marlboros... and you'd still get the huskies...
and the sledge... and a holiday in alaska...
                                                       ­  never mind.
hoisin sauce though? that's the dog's *******!
it goes down well with duck... chicken?
to bland...    but i'm guessing will pork will go
down well with the sauce.
         otherwise? z.z. top me...
                              i only learned yesterday,
what a boilermaker was...
                            apparently a shot of whiskey
followed by a beer...
         nothing quiete like al pacino in
                   the 1971 film, the panic in needle park...
this is going to be a feast... i can feel it...
            what do michelin star chefs eat when they get home?
some simple grub... probably egg on toast...
         i hardly think they're spectacular in their
choice of edibles to replicate their restaurant outputs...
      for them it's probably like:
            if it ain't done in 15 minutes... i'm not eating it.
hoisin? yep, that's to replace the sweet chili sauce.
           then there's the 2 litres of ***...
   well... i'm pretty sure one of the litres is for tomorrow.

Ex, ex.: lover, friend, “I love you”, (?)
Creech, bleach, screech, leach, I want to throw my head against a wall if I hear that one more
Time, mine, mine, mine, hers
Sardines, pasta, chicken, *****, not sure if we made nachos,
Morse code: ¿???¿  
Vicodin, spilt eggs, late night grocery shopping, that **** ******* place
We sat, flavor blasted, sombrero hanging from your roof with wilted rubber ballooned-friends and red candle wax dripping from your walls
Pick me up, kiss me, walk me into a door frame on the way into your bathroom for our nightly routine of brushing teeth and *******
*******? No. More than that.
Shots, you ran to get my phone, you ran back home - to me… we spent my birthday trying to drown out the sounds of us “more than *******” with whiny ***** music that we saw at that concert where you bought me edibles and I felt so high on life and you and the way you said “I ******* love you” on our way back and I knew you didn’t mean it but I pretended to believe it anyway
Demetri. Demon, derailed, detain, dehumanizing, Monster, you held me when I screamed and shoved you, you told me “I’m here it’s me and I am here and you are safe” when I thought you were him, when I thought he was going to **** me again
I didn’t think of him once the first time around and I cried and you asked me what was wrong while half asleep and then forgot about it the next day but I never will. I was so happy.
Grass, wheels, homemade meals- get out get out get out!
Why are you on my mind at 2:33am two years later (I want to throw you up)

only among poetry do you feel so
guilty having written much and read so little;
then come the chances to appreciate other genres,
and having appreciated such genres, become
all too willing to change
the genre of your expression
into something worth attention
when none was required;
such is poetry, an art of beatified
speech where there was none
to begin with;
and where adequate reading was enjoyed,
no other arithmetic of adequacy
was expressed, given the tongue's
complications of usage, i.e.
no beauty ***** joining him
for a scene at the opera, blah ha;
no tsar that met him ever left talking
about him with a feeling of jealousy -
the concert of concubines
and the nagging of the tsarina to keep up
appearances:
now watch the nagging darwin in me
with a monkey's face doing the juggling act
of ooh ooh oh ooh for the mouth's
shaping into a protruding of lips awaiting a trumpet!
blows a desire of the many sires, and hence the shipwreck
of the aristocratic hearts gathered into a populace
of a little city without silverware and serf hands
providing the chess moves of moveable silverware
for entrée, main and dessert of edibles macaroons: ah those
feasting eyes and corsets... how eager the scythe in hands
that sweated for the eyes to be so tearful and yet unsatiated
at a table of candlelight and ahem aha manners of using napkins;
i'll concern myself with courtesy when i'm able
to express myself in saxon or bavarian:
burping after a carbonated drink at the table drank...
and indeed i'll ease out a **** on my way out from
the splendour to an applause: without a necessary crescendo
of my own undoing!

My sense of taste has turned liquid
and melted away like soft butter.
I need it to savor the summer days
of my inner orchard. I need it to
open like a pomegrante blossom.
I need a bite of the powered sugar moon.
I want to savor amber pears falling
from laden boughs, the plasy juice
of ripe peaches.

I crave the smooth velvet richness
of a mouthful of langage,
heaping spoonfuls of words
sweetened by liquid light,
the flavor of mellow memories.
I need poetry full of pastry –
« sugar pyramids of confectionery . »

Taste, where have you gone ? Have you
fled from the wineglass weary of holding wine ?
Must I create a feast of literary edibles
to get you back ?

Once you know something, you can't unknow it
I contemplate the echoes of this inner void
Half knowing, half running
So afraid to fully commit
To fully let go
I've chosen to see then closed my eyes again
Unable to hide from myself
I've heard whispers of my truth beckoning
They want me to listen
To work together and grow
I know they're right, but I can't stand the sound
I've excelled at aversion
The keys to silence are in my hands
A couple of drinks or some edibles
Even the numbness of these meds
They're drugs all the same
And they mask the noise well
So at least for a little while
I can avoid it all again

fake news or no news,
yetis or
                    drunk eskimos
loosening a ****
                   on a trampoline...
whatever,
                   one fact is certain:
male sparrows,
                and mallards?
blush *******.
                     hands down
i honestly can only
drink... what's tha'....
less VAT and more F...
     vvvvv'aha...
v'ah thought?
   - bran...
      brand...
           BRADLY!
   caught a sober sailor:
straight, no ice...
and i somehow received
a castration notice minding
these two bird species,
which exfoliated in:
dull dumb hay-coloured
female...
   my my...
the males are ripe for
a military procession,
and a unanimous yell
akin to the modern russians...
slightly the gay hurrah,
and more mother Ural
citing:               itself...
       sparrow males
and mallards...
          cut those ballsies
off an i'll crown
myself the last prince
of a Bahrain harem...
to appease shamrock
sheikh baldy...
              start
   flustered over a well
salivated paper aero-experiment
hitting slam-dunk
shamrock rap...
       eh... the usual...
        hand only comes
in second to exploring
the ****...
          kissing prostitutes
is apparently equivalent
to stalling on: blah...
        blush *******
though...
     in vivo memoriae mors:
in life, the memory of death,
guess death has
to revive owning up
             to a bit of life...
imagination i can agree
dies, utterly...
        but memory?
    hard to **** off memory...
thinking can die the easy
death of mishearing
   the term: future...
   but memory?
            blush *******,
the male examples of
sparrow and those
english pub ducks and
bulldog card game subjects
of depiction...
     no... i'm pretty sure
a ****** wouldn't
   be composed with
      imagining a scenario
for death being
        stanced as: panicky...
problem with
perfecting a deviance...
         becauae...
this mea culpa
      *******-shaving
mantra?
                 it's...
   kinda... itchy...
   irritating...
                status quo
     fizzy, or rather:
  boiling under the radar...
          mea culpa mea culpa
mea culpa...
                to have been born
into this sort of masochism?
       counter arguments:
     heading into a cul de sac...
like the genesis of
cognition
   with an chimp scratching
its cranium...
         nice to know
the fungus brigade
having two pence worth
                of argument
to imply:
         infested, long lost
limb,
replaced with a pickled
fungus stump,
or the "hallucination"
   of a brain and spine
            in a bio-broth...
   hell, if it's safe to say that
god-head-fungus spoke
through me...
           photosynthesis
edibles are...
                  what was the point?
a ******* mushroom
conspiracy?!
              blush *******...
those male green 'ed
ducks, and notably
the in-reverse
   niqab slit male sparrows...
   blush *****...
               you almost
want them to become stuffed
mantles...
      if only not compensated
by the jittering
movements...
   the irony of being
able to float, like a bumber-sticker
with an annoying
relief for body in ushering
out a quack... like some sort
of a squeezed *******
revealing a:
                     HA-to-Q-to-mmm...
and you'll never know
visting a *******,
given the nearing a week-old
        "moral" hangover...
trigger-happy-itch though?
      don't know that
                   'un either...
           a 2 year celibacy spree?
no wonder i'm disorientated...
i attempted the same
results from cutting up
raw beef into a culinary
party-of-one in the guise
of a tartare;
             oh god, it can't be minced
beef...
            nearing sushi...
popcorn sushi -
        edible bits,
             simulating cartilage treats!
kaleidoscope of torn
                   into sinew lisps;
and it doesn't even bother
me eating poached chicken...
  given the precursor
of broth...
                   notably with
pregnant-pouch-soft
    delicacy of certain
vegetables...
  notably a leak,
   an onion or a garlic tooth...
i'll admit though:
nothing beats
oven "hibernated"
poultry skin...
   and cartilage... of any sort.

Selling.
There
O
Rich
Edibles

You’ve made your legacy
bullying those around you,
dressing down those who
appeared less in the chain of edibles.

Pushing to the brink of suicide
those you could,
surrounding yourself with “yes men”
while those of honor drown.

But your small and insignificant life
can no longer hurt me,
only memories in dreams
as fading dinosaurs chase me down.

I remember summertime days on the beach amusement parks birthday parties all day at the mall drive-in movies always having a ball
Where did those days go ?They're not coming back.
Life is just about cell phones new tennis shoes fancy cars and the internet look at our future all the kids getting high celebrities dying on opiates people spending their money on edibles and **** and vaporizing ,sad to think we have to work two jobs just to pay a few bills a big ole house too big to fill.
Woman having kids in 2018 that's crazy to raise a kid in this Society .Where did those days go they're not coming back it's all about cell phones brand new tennis shoes fancy cars and the internet smoking **** eating edibles and video games it's not logical where did those days go they're not coming back

I don't know where we came from
I don't know how I got here
But we might not be here too much longer
I'm sitting here on the back porch of my mind

Swamp gas bubbled up
Or anaerobic somethings commingled in the sea
A single cell expanded
We keep expanding till we're free

I have a megalomaniacal mind
It's a miracle how I think
Just as I chew more cannabis edibles
Then puke them up in the sink

Take another swig of liquor
Read the Bible and curse God
How'd the Lord of all Creation
Go and get this heathen wrong?

Really though I want like everyone
And this life is just a test
Who's the teacher and group leader
Who wanted all of this?

I don't know where I came from
This is my agnostic poem
I don't know how we got here
But I feel right at home

Last year I was addicted to caffeine
I used to call anxiety spicy energy
Espresso shots and soft drinks tore their way through my veins
The year before that
I was addicted to you
I used to call the sadness inspiration
I used to call you
And you would always ignore me
I used to be addicted to writing
But people go through phases
We mimic nature
The moon is dark and darker and then it’s light again
Your heart is warm and warmer and then it’s cold
And friends
Will change and leave you behind
And you will cry in your car all night
After eating one too many edibles

This poem’s a mess
And so is my head

This year I don’t have any addictions
This year I am free
And I found that there isn’t that much in my personality
I tied myself to people and things
And being alone is scary
But I guess it’s better then being a slave
I guess it’s better to be ordinary.

You said I have you
So let me roll your cigarettes clumsily
Over the yellow vase I got from a stranger
Who was heading to the ODEON drunk
And we'll see if I still have you
If I still have you
I'll stroke your veins for an hour in a field
'Cause I love touching arms
If I still have you
We'll fall asleep on trains and wake
At one a.m. in the suburbs
I don't care about finishing poems
I'll buy the best edibles
That my loose change allows me
We'll listen to metal for the rest of our lives.