"gatorade" poems
Yogurt.
"I begin the day buying yogurt in a small favorite grocery store."
Not pizza, nor gatorade.
Bananas
although they are imported from afar and grown in monocultures.
Attract fruit flies in August.
Peaches
locally grown with rainwater. I ate all the farmer's peaches alone
stacking them by the railroad tracks.
Water --
rainwater, tap water, distilled water, carbonated water, spring water --
deep gulps, infinite sips.
Nuts
in moderation, or not, unsalted, raw, replacing chips. His bowl
of filberts, almonds, walnuts quiet weekday mornings.
Edible plant parts --
roots, leaves, stems, flowers, fruit, buds. In olive oil
or butter.
Potatoes --
look online how best to prepare. Baked or fried. With a little
fish or meat.
Tea and honey,
play and prayer. Swimming and running,
talking quietly.
Bread?
Bread's possible as the Bible. Each is liable
to bloat us.
Wine and dandelions.
Dandelion wine's Ray Bradbury's story. Cans in a pantry, books on a
shelf
to the end of time.
Pasta
we used to call spaghetti, never noodles. I wonder if I can remember
how to make
grandma's sauce.
Tomatoes --
cherry, grape. Grab God's eye
going by.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 11:34 AM UTC
Canned latte, water, fruit punch Rip-It
Gulp it, down it, chug it, sip it
In the gunner's sling, sway side to side
240B in the cradle, M4 right side
Talk of ***
Talk of food
It's all allowed
Nothing's too crude
Sometimes you talk
Sometimes you listen
Don't talk later 'bout what's said on mission
Check alleyways, balconies, traffic, rooftops
At five miles-an-hour, this convoy never stops
Red Bull, Gatorade, citrus Rip-It
Gulp it, down it, chug it, sip it
In the gunner's sling, sway side to side
240B in the cradle, shotgun left side
In the distance, flashes of white light
Watch them bloom throughout the green night
Was it dust lightning? Was it a bomb?
Don't matter to us, this mission carries on
Two hours to dawn, eight hours 'til we're done
Check balconies, traffic, alleyways, rooftops
At five miles-an-hour, this convoy never stops
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
All this kush we smoke
With a Gatorade makeshift ****
Ja know that its no joke,
Ja know it won't be long!
I can hear the bowl piece roll
This **** is not airtight
For when I try to light my bowl
It jingles through the night, OH!
Jingle **** Jingle **** Jingle all the way!
It's no fun
To simply bun
With a loose fitting **** all day, HEY!
Jingle **** Jingle **** Jingle all the way!
The whole squad sings
Our bowl piece rings
And everyone feels ok!
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 11:12 AM UTC
In response to the text: *"who wants to get ********* this weekend?"*
I reply: I'll bring donuts, Gatorade, and Cards Against Humanity.
I tell the girls that the snacks are for them, so they don't get too drunk or hungover.
But really I know myself too well, and I binge when I feel lonely.
Its hard not to feel lonely, when you're the only sober one there.
At the Party:
Never Have I Ever reveals more than I ever thought it would.
I might be the oldest, but I am by no means the most mature.
Things I have never heard of, things I could have never thought of are things of which they speak.
Two donuts are gone.
Their alarms all go off at 10:00 for birth control. They take out their mini purse packs of 30 pills, no bigger than a credit card.
I don't take birth control, because my periods are regular, and well:
Depression+antidepressants+confusion of sexuality= no *** drive at all.
I mean zip, zero, nothing.
Leaving me to be the only ****** of the six girls here.
Three donuts are gone.
Hours ago though, I took my 300mg of Seroquel XR.
I timed it just right.
This time I won't fall asleep hours before everyone else
'Pong' requires drinking so I sit their and watch.
Four donuts are gone
Shots are taken.
I pour more tea into my mug.
Five Donuts are Gone
Drunk face-timing old friends who have moved away results in much yelling, and her hanging up.
I start a new group text where I talk only to myself.
All Donuts are gone
There is no wonder why alcohol and depression don't mix
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 11:48 PM UTC
Iridium fastball pitches
from Zuni serpent mound,
bottom of the 9th walk-off homerun
over 30ft diving moai.
Slide to home base in volcanic lava
to congratulatory ***** Gatorade bath
from Kubla Kahn forefathers,
chanting psychedelic clubhouse anthems.
Levitate from home plate
and land atop Pyramid of Cholula for victory dinner;
for since we’re all artists in our dreams,
true dreams never come true.
Dec 29, 2011
Dec 29, 2011 at 10:34 PM UTC
• grape gatorade
• baby powder engraved earrings
• glow sticks
• the smell of old holy pages
• peach cobbler
• complement circles
• heterochromia
• crazy hair
• wet clothes
• dr pepper
• cold rain against the humid air
• glances people steal
(j.a.r.)
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 10:43 PM UTC
So excuse me while I dump out my Starbucks in the fridge
and paper shred my valued customer card.
Let me hate coffee for you,
Because you're the only person I've been willing to hate coffee for in three years.
Those other boys could never tear me from the coffee shop counter,
I would latch on like a koala to a tree limb,
Thirsting for that satisfying and hypnotizing liquid.
Let me loath coffee for you,
Because I haven't been so excited about loathing coffee in three years.
Its tantalizing aromatics will woo me no more.
The other men in my life have no affect on my love affair with these beans,
Their scents loop around my neck and drag me in,
The craving becomes irrefutable,
My bones creak with each body convulgence
In response to the grinders on the espresso machines.
Please let me get you a drink,
Orange juice? Milk?
Gatorade?
I swear, I'll keep coffee as far away as possible at all times,
Avoiding every Dunkin' Donuts while driving,
Every quaint mom-and-pop coffee shop while walking,
And flight attendants will never dare bring a coffee ***
on their food cart when we fly.
I won't ***** this up with the **** coffee,
Because perhaps it was coffee the last three times that left things in rancid rot,
The filters from yesterday's shift never disposed of.
Let's go anywhere but a coffee shop together,
Let's go everywhere but a coffee shop forever.
And I promise,
I won't even try and sneak a latte around you,
But can I please keep my chai tea?
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
it's not even noon, but
my thoughts are drenched with
*** bound and gagged.
you're dancing around the kitchen, clad
only in a pair of
lace ******* you paid
too much for at Victoria's
Secret liaisons by the
seaside, sand sieving through your hair:
all forms of metal-backed currency taste
like ***** on your fingertips stuffed
roughly in my mouth,
call me a ****
pretty please?
promethazine slathered over
watermelon sherbert and
soaked in Sprite; put a lid on it and
shake vigorously until well mixed.
Xanax exacerbated migraines mean
naptime for me, and I forgot to tell you
the Gatorade is spiked with *****
(or maybe tequila; I've well and truly
forgotten) and all of this
is just another means of
replacing you.
you're wrapped in an
ecru trench coat,
cinched at the waist over
concealed weaponry:
unlicensed pistol and wet coral *****
constrained by a black leather holster and
cobalt cotton.
you kissed me with
******* in your nostrils and
nosebleed on your lips;
you killed me with
contempt in your mouth and
venom on your nails.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
yesterday my feet rested comfortably on the bar of someone else's chair
and my eyelids slid heavy and the world seemed slow
a graph of survivorship curves glowing blurry on the whiteboard
and then words slid from behind a neatly trimmed white beard
". . . .as our bodies are programmed to die."
as our bodies are programmed to die.
*thousands of miles away
one gleaming thought against a murky sky
(that's how i imagine it anyway--murky, cold,
stagnant air)
a frantic explosion of lean muscle power
and a body launching into the lake.
he was 17 and in that moment gears somewhere in this world shifted,
numbers were crunched and
some profound device processed the seconds, linking and unlinking them with an automatic, well-oiled certainty
he was 17 and the number on his football jersey suited him like wool socks on winter feet
his stride under the lights a weekly prize to all hungry, bleacher-ed, washed-up life-hunters bundled against october-night chill-streaked skies
they drank hot cocoa and he took three sips of gatorade
he was 17 and his smile
and his curls
and we all hear about hospitals but
this feels different because
he was 17 and suddenly,
instantaneously
his body was just a beep
and his skin turned the color of the walls
first the ICU painted quick brushstrokes across his wrists
then it stopped giving a **** at all
and the water rushed endlessly, heartlessly.
when I shift through memories and
find his seven-year old face in my mind, i remember a gap
where he'd lost a front tooth and i remember sunlight streaming behind his hair
it was valentine's day and he gave me a small smile and a silver charm bracelet in a powder blue box.*
i shifted my feet
heard the snap of a binder closing
and all i could think about was
the oversimplification of words
and survivorship curves
and 17 years
and
and
piles of numbers spurting from a computer
and an echo of a splash.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
advil & gatorade
bring a moment's ease
to my rending body.
soaked wet/head-splitting, after
long night in an awenda tent/colt 45 at 41 turtle.
off to the city in a packed car (rainy 401)
to cop a bass.
also decided to pawn the old red body
and grab a little classical gitr.
shred it in my basement room.
singin' folksongs.
Sep 20, 2011
Sep 20, 2011 at 11:04 PM UTC
There once was a chicken
and there was once a hawk
the hawk would talk
non stop
about his ability of flight
his speed his force
he'd talk so long
the chicken would bash his head against the door
The chicken hated the hawk
hated listening to him talk
the chicken wanted to beat the hawk
so he would no longer have to hear him talk
and then the Rocky music played
as the chicken flapped his wings
up steps sliced out in the sky
till he would reach the top then dive
the chicken became very good at this
though not as good as the hawk
and when the hawk won the race
he would just continue to talk and talk
the chick was sick of it
he fled to his own getaway
feeding on solely chocolate
and liters of gatorade
The chicken consumed
until he couldn't see his toes
he stumbled out his front door
where man found him
unaware of his past
caring just for the fire and not the wood
why the Hawk is fast
and the Chicken tastes good
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
sipping a Gatorade
(I’d prefer diet coke)
I wait for the call
to board the
plane
my sister and dad
people watch
behind me
my mom reads
to my left
my great-grandma
and her friend talk
quietly
I sit here
sipping my drink
and writing
this is the sort of place
that every soul eventually
drifts through
hubs of the human universe
quiet despite all the voices
this is the beginning of an adventure
go to a foreign land
form one great terminal
to
another
many would be jealous
but really I’m just
sitting here
sipping
Gatorade
and
writing
Dec 11, 2010
Dec 11, 2010 at 7:04 AM UTC
Help yourselves dear poets
if you have fever use filtered martinelly apple juice or any brand you got dilude it with water a glass every hour
it has boron it heals cutting fevers fast I used in my children tylenol can harm liver.
~~~~~~
for the stronger health users go
organic carrot and (beat juice-
-optional) if you only want water distiled is best one gallon add 20 drops of oregano leaf oil
and only drink this is antiviral.
fir one day or two
~~~~~~
If you tolerate take on raw garlic two or more Clove's blend them in filtered, or boiled or distilled water or even Gatorade electrolyte or smart water
add cayenne pepper or any hot peppers you have like cayenne it's good for heart
( no halapeños they irritate intestinal lining ) add sea salt to taste cilantro if you have add two yellow lemon juices freshly squeezed one hole mandarine or small organic orange
add ginger root fresh a finger size slice
add turmeric fresh root
you have apple cider vinegar with the mother in
add some one tablespoon
optional
add multivitamin mineral
and vitamin C ascorvic acid
8f no lemon available.
if you feel anxiety check thyroid it controls brain chemicals add a thyroid supplement vitamin to shake open capsule and blend all these and drink five onces
every 3 hours.
it's anti virulent immune system booster
200 mg of vitamin B complex nightly in powder form will stop your restless leg syndroms help nerves and good sleep add but D3
If you dear find milk thistle it heals detox liver tastes great open one or two capsules in glass of water I drink this daily.
~~~~~
Stay blessed all poets visitors friends you are much loved.
by Karijinbba
Mar 15, 2020
Mar 15, 2020 at 4:32 PM UTC
Give me the freestylin', free-write.
Give me the stuff that makes you see day and dream at night.
Give me the highest peak,
give me the valley pit,
and if you can't give,
then try and don't quit.
I'm sure the words you say,
you say so fast,
you don't really mean.
And if you do it often,
then they call you 'queen bee'.
If you don't say enough,
they call you not tough.
If you will talk and talk,
they just ignore stuff.
You're not a rock.
You could still try and try
to change inside yourself,
but they will never change.
Saying *they don't really care,
and you should listen to what they say"* ?
But if you hear them out,
what favors are you doing,
all that turkey flying out their mouths,
is surely cooking.
Give me the sour slice.
Give me tongue-tied.
Give me the Gatorade that quenches me on half-time.
Give me that sunny side,
when hills are steep slope.
Give me the love life,
that steamy"yes",
and cold"no."
There's nothing I don't want to hear so,
if you can give me something here,
I will listen real clear.
I will read your thoughts,
or compliment for talking about your fears.
I'll be here patient and calm,
awaiting something,
soon as I see it there,
I will be observing.
And when you pull away,
I hope you recall,
all of the comments I made,
that made you feel real tall.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 6:35 PM UTC
You don’t know him like I do,
He has night terrors like he’s been in war,
He doesn’t trust himself when he drinks alone,
He fears he will turnout like his father,
You don’t know him like I do,
When he’s happy you can’t help but smile,
When he’s grumpy he has the most adorable nose crinkle,
When he’s sad he won’t let it show,
You don’t know him like I do,
There are doors locked within his eyes,
He fears failing everyone,
Loving people is hard for him because people leave,
You don’t know him like I do you never really will,
I hope you figure out that he loves back rubs as he falls asleep,
Or that getting him a gatorade is like a peace offering,
Never forget to let him know that you’re home safe.
You may think that you know it all,
And I really hope you do,
But a love like mine and his doesn’t come around but once in a lifetime.
I was his once in a lifetime,
So to who ever who loves him next,
I am a tough act to follow but I truly do wish you luck,
Please take care of him and keep building him up.
He deserves the world, make sure you give it to him.
But you will never know him the way I do, no one will.
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 2:08 AM UTC
*Plunge, colder+deeper, illuminosity, shame, boats,
fear, family, disappointment, roots, train,*
**Lights,
Camera,
Action:**
When you told me, “no”
you called me ******
and you became the Quarterback
you used to be.
You refused to watch
my musicals because football
“What real men do, boy”
ran in your blood.
So, I swore never to forgive
the blood that named me
your son because you threw
a pass and I didn’t have hands.
Winter was cold and the stage
was warm, unlike pigskin goose bumps
or Gatorade that you tried
to force onto my hands.
Then you finally came
to watch me sing
in Les Miserables and
you wept, warm tears.
“Proud of you, son”
you cried, and we wept
and my cold heart thawed
because of bloods warmth.
**Lights
Camera
Scene.**
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 5:21 PM UTC
For since I do not have you,
I must remember best I can,
The days like this past Monday,
When a spliff was in my hand.
I found myself searching
For that feeling in my mouth,
The one that make saliva smack,
And had me heading south.
Down to the Circle-K of course,
Since water could not cure--
And gum could not be found,
Up the isle, I saw, obscured.
Gatorade!--Amongst the chips and chocolate,
I wandered through that maze,
Oh cottonmouth, you waited so patiently,
In that silly haze.
Feb 23, 2011
Feb 23, 2011 at 12:07 PM UTC
on the eighth day
by
Jude kyrie
*After the world
was completed
the day of rest taken.
On the eighth day
he invented the blues.
Even the songbirds
wail like an alto sax in pain.
Sitting alone on the bench
by the parkette
the color blue
Is everywhere I look,
the sky dark blue
dropping an
occasional raindrop tear.
A blue ladies dress
Blue umbrellas.
Blue memories
slowly jogging past.
The traffic
moans the blues.
In a muted cacophony.
Now a blue wind blows
gently almost sobbing into
a wailing drainpipe.
I sip my Gatorade
Its flat and blue.
A cool breeze
blows by my face
from the blue waters
of the lake.
I hold up my finger
to touch the color blue.
But it passes
right through me.*
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 5:04 PM UTC
The dust has been lifted
Wise words from the man in the red truck
As he eluded provocative ants dancing ‘round cigarette ash
Pokemon never behaved like jackals
Or any other eighties hair metal bands for that matter
At least Pantera shredded their way out of that shtick
It allowed me to quench my thirst with neon Gatorade
And stomaching peninsulas
This is why starch as a way to mend secular viral videos
Was never a serious consideration
That right belongs to the intergalactic Prince Albert
Of the Ziggy Stardust federation
It’s what made me feel secure with crack and root beer
Can I get a signal out here,
Or did the waffle train miss me by a nano robot?
God save this illustrious choir of cephalopods and naval lint
Before they find their way into the haphazard way
I chop chicken under drunken stars
A wizard once led me to this concussion
But I cannot remember the first door he smashed with a crowbar
I know it had only been six years since Julia Roberts was in Erin Brockovich
The movie about the alien cyborg, who birthed Africanized
Native American bumble bees
Or was that merely a fan fiction continuation?
That’s when the itch in my head stopped….
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 4:38 PM UTC
poetry isn't just for white people, Vivian
isn't a girl's name, and I will
wear these white jeans past Labor Day.
we forget that we could
touch the stars if we *******
tried, but instead we are
here, drowning in atmosphere,
choking on our inhibitions.
there are ten pills tucked
in the very back of your desk;
you love them but
they're about to become a
crutch, and you are frightened.
I don't **** with that
new ****
but it's not like you care.
I'm still the same *******
idiot, total trash, I
deleted your number
and I won't send you
snapchats,
I wonder if you
deleted my dickpics.
lost intimacy, windowsill
cacti, a Ziplock full of ******* stuffed
inside your pillowcase;
I went for a run, your
name traipsing about my
prefrontal cortex, smashing
memories, beheading roosters,
screaming incoherently about
subprime mortgages and
credit derivatives.
the government is lying about
9/11 but no one really cares;
the government is arming oppressive regimes in
Missouri but white people don't care;
would that I had such
willful ignorance, the right to
ignore the slaughter on our
front lawns.
my parents started from the
bottom, they survived in
America, decapitated birds on the doorstep.
I do not have their strength and I am
washing Xanax down with Gatorade and
refusing to apologize.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
Fell through the lion's gate maybe sippin' too much of Mercury's Gatorade. Head all over the space still forcing construction so the levee won't break. I barely leave my mind when I get heavy for heaven's sake. Hard to translate the mental pain when so many seem to exist on different planes. I reside in light and shadow so I know none of this is strange. I've taken off the mask but haven't gotten out the stains. Ego popped up and tried labeling the experience as delirious. Yet I can't recall E existing with long periods of fearlessness. I'm releasing repressed emotion B, cheers - here it is. Time to shed the shell of what was, this is Sirius.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 5:39 PM UTC
I laid on my bedroom floor and sunk my face into my elbow. There was nothing. No sound. No movement. There was Blackness. I was engulfed, I did not feel my heart and I did not feel my lungs. Time went on, unscathed, but I remained in the Black. I do not know anything. I do not know who came in my room. I do not know what they said. I do not know what I said. The jarring crash of a constant sound kept pulling me away. Every labored second time bore forth, I was unaware. I had gone somewhere so far that I was nowhere. The dust lined the back of my throat. Then I knew everything. I desperately wandered around looking for the Black. I had no provision but the Black. I had been unaware. Perfectly unaware. But I could not find the Black. So I was aware: no salt ever was so tasteless, no liquid was ever so dry. No pain was ever so miniscule, no mucus was ever so breathable. No, there was nothing. Not in the Black.This prejection of perfection, I could not emulate. I close my eyes and there was black. It had ears, a mout, eyes, a nose, and touch. There was a pit in the middle of my soul, somewhere between the bottom of my rib cage and my pants. I tried to find the Black there, but it was gone. Instead there was grinding and crashing. There was color. There was noise. I was refusing to really acknowledge it. There was aching and burning; there was pressure and banging. There was blue and there were barbells. There was a bed; a Bible and many books. There were bandaids and bottles and bows and bespeckled things. There was a blue monster and blue shirt. There was blue gatorade and black cords, and there was black shoes and black clothes. But there was no Black. There was brokeness and bruises; beige and bumps.There was a bunny and beauty products; a balustrade and a bathroom door. But there was nothing, and with it was no Black.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 11:48 AM UTC
Bella,
My sweet bella
The one who makes me feel like my whole body hurts because I miss her
It's too much
I miss those nights, the ones with the moon by our side
How our drunkness made us close
I never thought someone I've seen six times would mean so much to me
I need your presence, I'm broken
I need someone
I need someone with whom to share my ***** in a bottle mixes with gatorade
I need that sausage smell
I'm writing this while being ******
But my dear Bella, you mean the world to me and I never thought someone would become as important as you have
It's like you put the stars in the skies
I need you to have someone to drown my sorrows in a bottle with. I miss you
But I know sometime, soon
I'll get drunk and do fun stuff with you
Nothing seems fun without you, you might be the missing piece
but Dear Bella, wait for me, as the sun waits to rest when sunset comes. I love you as much as a cherry blossom tree loves it's beautiful flowers that just bloomed
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 10:46 PM UTC
Gatorade at the pinball machine
a moderate allergy
to most things
prompts the mouse
to stay indoors
/
the alive, the low, the excuse
*I am a Sagittarius and I flirt with
everybody* but U
listing in the centermost rhombus
of my woozy kaleidoscope
are the kind of creature
women write spells about
and then grow gardens 4
/
don't bring those
outlaws here,
to my Fabergé spacecraft.
just yourself, and that...!
my crown of moldy leaf
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 1:05 PM UTC