"gluten" poems
Our first date at Rise
Holding your hand at the Firehouse Theater
Eating bagels you brought back from Montreal
Having lunch at Salata
Going to the Arboretum
The way you peeked out children’s house
Cuddling on the couch
Watching Game of Thrones
When you fell asleep in my arms
Drinking Amaretto Sours
When you would be silly
The sound of your voice
The maraschino cherry stem you tied with your tongue
The Forget Me Not Flower Kit you gave me
Exchanging texts
The sound of incoming WhatsApp messages
Diner at Howard Wangs
You wearing bunny ears during Easter
36-28-41
When you posed for me
Your blues eyes looking up at me
Seeing your smile
Touching your lips
The way you smell
The secrets you would tell
Showing how you care
Hugging me tight
Letting me take care of you
When you cook Arepas
The gluten free Clafouti
The time you had the flu
Wearing Calvin Klein underwater
Your dainty feet
Your goddess like figure
Your cute accent
Typing in the door bell code
Hearing you answer
The emoji of puppy heart kitten
Knowing you are my Bijou
Calling you Minou
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 7:21 PM UTC
Pretty Little Cup Cake Store:
I walk through the door.
Somehow I think it will
Cheer me up.
A white iced-pink sprinkled cupcake
Will help me forget.
While unwrapping the trendy black and baby blue doted baking paper
Will bring back the past again.
But, even I know it is a ruse
A joke I play on myself.
You know the owners are some super hot soccer moms whose family invested in their latest project.
Those **** bakers with pretty white aprons
And size two retro-pink waitress uniforms;
Smiling and cooing at the lavender infused cake
That makes this treat go down so smooth.
A gluten-free icing with a garnish of kumquat.
This will land their pictures on the local news.
I am not a size two.
I will just as soon eat a nutty-buddy by Little Debbie
But, this trendy cupcake cafe, makes me feel I am one of those
Pretty ladies in the retro pink waitress uniform.
Kinda like a celebration, for a party of one.
I am not a hot pretty stick chick
I will buy four, five or six of those pretty cupcakes.
Pretending I am buying a hostess gift.
But, the truth.....
My husband forgot that we married
8 years ago this day.
I will pay too much for too little product: but the cake box is cute
I will sit in my car
Eating, till my teeth hurt.
I will rationalize; that I will cleanse tomorrow.
I will go home.
He will ask how I am, while staring at the TV.
"Shussh" he will say, "I'm trying to hear."
There is no use to remind him
He will play the tired "I'm-in-the-dog-house game."
I prefer stuffing four, five or six pretty little cupcakes
Into my mouth then listening
To his tired apologies, weak little lies and false promises of a planned
Surprise.
Instead; I will go to my room; then my private bath:
I will stick my fingers down my throat
And cough up my life.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 7:27 PM UTC
I'm an olympic housewife.
My mantlepiece of medals
is perfectly folded washing
arranged in mahogany drawers
with calm elegance
like swans on a lake.
I’m an elite athlete of the mundane.
My scrapbook of 1st place ribbons
are surfaces that sparkle
a masterpiece of purity
zen arrangement lust
like Ikebana in an empty room.
I’m an extreme sport star of domesticity.
My list of world class honours
gluten free bake-offs
blogging my parenting tips
a domestic online celebrity
like an effortless Demeter.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
Marinara is my favourite kind of pizza.
I mean, I can’t really have any others...
Yes, I am one of those ‘annoying vegans’
But I also don’t like the non-dairy cheeses.
I used to order the gluten-free version.
So, I guess I am even more annoying.
However, the dough was so dry and weird
I just could never enjoy it.
I’ve tolerated it though for maybe 4 times.
But seriously, it was quite nasty.
So, please, just get the normal Marinara,
Unless you've got celiac disease.
In which case,
I'm sorry,
You gotta have to get the gross pizza.
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 6:30 AM UTC
Soft curdled interior now at its eutectic
Holds a bifurcated square of gluten
Equally carbonized together
In an **** of ill-advised but sensual nutrition
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
I want cheesey garlic bread!
alas, it's all that's in my head-
and if lactose I could tolerate,
this might not be such a debate.
though I'm sure my body could conform,
but it's taken this long to reform!
from the **** and mucus that is dairy,
that will surely turn your knuckles hairy.
I'll eat a piece of gluten toast,
for it only makes my tummy bloat,
but from cheese I must stay far away,
unless I want my **** to spray.
it's a sign, I think, that my body rejects
such a harmful product, my body protects
but god ****** I want garlic bread,
the cheesey kind, it's in my head...
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 1:30 AM UTC
Well Done.
She said, but don't ***** it up. Its a start.
How could I?
Your sauciness drove right thru my heart.
Will you please be my bottom bun?
Baby, you're my seed number one.
Sesame wants Sesayou
Tardy to your selfworth day party
Salty, and peppered with hardy haught looks
I've overcooked this simple match up
Maybe baby I'm plain ketchup.
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 4:48 PM UTC
"i don't wanna have to be the one to tell you this,
but you're no foodie; you're just a ******
who's too cowardly to take an honest look at yourself.
It's okay to be whatever you want,
just don't lie to yourself proclaiming to be a foodie
to justify late-night trips to Jack in the Box four days a week,
or eating a whole jar of Tostitos 'Salsa con Queso' every two days.
Are you trying to mummify yourself with all those preservatives?
Y'know,
just because you blow most of your paychecks
on gasoline, **** food and overpriced coffee
pulled to the most pretentious of standards
doesn't at all begin to mean that you've got any class, taste, or style,
let alone that you're a foodie.
At least recycle all the paper products your pseudofood comes in.
Moreover, your thighs aren't ******* gluten,
they're all that other junk you eat habitually
while watching your oh-so-edified selection of films
before sleeping it off until 3 in the afternoon.
No wonder you're so full of ****
you are what you eat, I suppose.
Pull your head on out your ***
All that fat and cholesterol isn't for the faint of heart."
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
Considered the staple of life
Is nothing more than ground up
Grain from
The ground.
Bread,
What so many peasants fought for in
France and Russia
Is nothing more than
Carbohydrates smushed together
Bread,
What everyone eats today,
Is nothing more than gluten free,
Wheat or multigrain.
But could some thing so simple
Be so important?
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 2:25 PM UTC
whole foods white wine
gluten-free sugarless ambrosia
2.99
or 49.99
silver spoons & china glasses
or Burger King™ waxy wrap
matters not in the end
it all turns to
****
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 1:56 AM UTC
welcome to the world
milk larder
atlas killer
welcome to the universal mind
your presence has not been anticipated
no bells rung at your birth
but the cosmos shook about a
nanometer
from the force of your creation
spectacular birth even if your arm
is weak
doubtless your good looks will make up the rest
...
no luck there?
you're the down-trodden,
the eclipsed lantern,
the face in odd angles,
wearing the weight of someone's unconditional
..
Lust
but deep in your caved chest
your heart is beating the tribal song
of a jet launching for the sky
the way you felt when you switched wheat
for rye
the turn in your cerebrum going from gluten
to sigh.
but even as the birds coast beside
your jet-stream heart strings
I see your hesitation glistening
shivering at the start line from your magnum opus
and you are shattered
growling lioness courage running from the cannon
exhaust that running lion
until she's panting on her back
sweating vapor into the atmosphere
and you remember that all along
you have been the soulmate of the intangible
you just forgot
and you forgot again.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 4:19 PM UTC
sister sinister
mister sinister
sinning through the day
no work and all play
living today, leaving behind
a trail of breadcrumbs too close to mine
the birds pick and choose and I am left a loser
thanks to sinister games and pleasure
the crumbs are gluten-free, but the bread devours me
I am baked, no candied apple tree, not if no one waters it
retracing my crumbs is impossible when birds are pick-and-choosers
better to use inedible yarn perhaps
then getting lost in a labyrinth of hopes that trap me
would be fine if I could find a fine line to walk
but I would only trip as the bull feasts and talks with it’s mouth full
if only I did my research, I could teach a preacher
to ****** a bull and bind him, burn his trail of crumbs behind him
Even then my crumbs would turn to ember
My next loaf won’t finish baking until September.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
This is for those hemp clad allotment dwelling new-age professionals,
riding the crest of an organic wine wave,
with heads tilted so far back,
showing off their vanilla white, Dulux painted nostril showroom.
11am, it's not too early,
community centre trip,
twisting and stretching,
kneading and rolling eighteen-month old Oscar into a morally righteous,
gluten-free,
linseed loaf of faux intelligensia.
Tofu and thai veg stirfry please,
healthy and nutriousness,
Nah!
it's greasy and delicious.
Cultured, not truly,
it's Anglicized cuisine really.
Less like a political activist,
more like the organic bourgeoisie.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 8:10 AM UTC
Allergens
Memories
Strong spices
Leave your scars
I'll send them below
Precious new memories will replace
Your unwelcome pain
Napkins and longboards
electronic haze
I don't watch Disney
I wish I
didn't know my parents
But I take this for granted again
Outbreaks
Gluten
Shedding
Flannels before they were Cool
painting my room
two shades of black
Shakira
I'll share my life
If you will pretend I'm awake enough
To absorb yours
Can we become closer?
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 3:09 AM UTC
at the age of 8
i was diagnosed
with celiac disease
gluten left holes within
my stomach
ulcers grew on the walls
and wreaked havoc
within my body
now at the age of 21
i consume gluten
without a second thought
leaving the pains within
feeling like death
it is kind of funny
in a way
as i am getting older
i am realizing
i've been eating gluten
these past few years
as a way of killing myself
as a way of letting all
of the darkness win
as a way of letting
myself feel pain
if not emotionally
than physically
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 2:48 AM UTC
I've measured her right
Little toe. It's exactly 16mm.
When she grinds her teeth in her
Sleep, just rub her jaw gently.
She'll stop without
Waking up.
If you read to her in bed, she'll
Watch you wide eyed from
Your shoulder; study your features
As you speak.
She'll stop you if you lose her
Between two words she doesn't
Quite understand.
She'll thank you for explaining.
She's worth it.
She's allergic to sugar, dairy, gluten
And eggs. I'll mail you a hundred
Recipes I've created for her.
Tell you all the tricks
So I know she'll eat.
You get used to the hassle.
She's worth it.
She's crazy about cartoons.
Let her watch them; seeing her
Laugh beats the game
Hundredfolds.
She'll love you for letting her
Read for hours and tell you about
The story.
She'll be so beautiful
When concentrating.
Give her space. Yours included.
She's worth it.
Let her grow.
Let her learn in her own time.
Let her be who she is.
She was weaker before me.
Now she's strong enough
To stand up and do the right thing,
Though both our hearts broke
In the process.
If she goes, let her.
Help her out, send her off
With blessings.
Say to yourself *I'd rather see her
Happy without me than
Unhappy here.* You'll
Mean it.
You'll cry your eyes out
And scream at the skies. Then
Thank God for every minute
You spent as her man.
They were worth it.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 6:26 AM UTC
Sometimes on the way out of Giant,
I'll spend some time freeing change
from the receipt-paper
bindle in my coat pocket
for one two-twist mystery prize
from a Folz machine.
Two quarters:
Enough for a sapphire ring and a cheap
laugh while I juggle coffee-cream cartons,
a sack of December oranges, Certs,
cinnamon mouthwash, a dented can
of green beans 'cause it's cheaper,
red toothpicks, Ziploc bags, a barbecue
chicken TV dinner, Noxzema, a 32-case
of Poland Spring water, a Valentine's
Hallmark card and envelope, a bottle
of pink grapefruit Perrier,
two quick picks for Cash 5,
gluten-free potato chips, garlic salt,
some cumin for $2.82, and a copy
of Vogue.
I strap my groceries in the passenger seat,
and see them sitting straight up as I had,
childishly marveling at the lush
maple leaves washing the windshield
edges in green, leaving helicopters
and dew trails.
She and I watched slug trails
beneath mustard streetlights glisten
like Berger Lake.
Bright as the last cigarette my grandma snuffed out in a smokeless ash tray.
Bright as the first line of road flares that separated me from a burning Taurus.
Bright as the quarter my grandpa gave me for the Folz machine in the Sylvania.
And bright as the emerald ring I showed him.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 3:27 PM UTC
I'm sorry God, but they've taken you prisoner.
Their words indubitably once streamed from your lips,
as your fingers projected beams of light,
falling from the Heavens:
people dumbly read your signs so literally.
They've closed you in a book and recalled your name
when such mentioning benefited their own name,
hypocrites they are;
for there was never a hypoChrist
capable of making wine a commodity
and bread a demon,
unless it is gluten-free.
How your intentions are clouded in veils.
****** in your name.
To glorify you.
Pushing scared young lovers--two men-- against barbed wire fences
and insisting they are sinful, foul--better off dead.
Maybe the hate is right
because it wins ten times out of nine.
God, they constantly judge each other
when they don't believe in the "right" version of you.
And they represent a new hipper you for the youth:
they want to understand you, when really they just
want to be understood.
Some days I walk past strangers and wonder,
"Who do you want me to be?"
Am I not Muslim enough unless I cover my hair?
Am I too Moz-lim if I say Allah and mean God--
just God, not whatever inane misnomer you'll tell me I really believe
you to be.
I think you tire of our piddle paddle,
how we puff up our chests, only to blow out a tiny breath of air,
that in one instant you can extinguish:
the candle had no choice.
We think we give the world meaning.
We feel so special when we hear ourselves think,
but sometimes, I wish you'd speak instead of all these false prophets.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC
This cabbage,
Just an average roundness,
When turning greener then the savage forests,
Ruined my marriage at this early stage.
And now it's in a beige paper bag.
This peach,
My lover of all trinkets,
Became a gluten-tree fork,
With its ***** like a beach ball,
Came to me in a dream-like trance.
This onion,
The only window to my decomposing soul,
Unraveled its layers of tears to me in all
It's subtlety. It jumped on a subway train
Looking for fresher markets of prosperity.
Desperately, still.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 1:15 PM UTC
Rachel Ray is speaking.
The room in which he lays, passed out, continues on without his permission. Dead moths feather down from the less-than-steady window unit. A cockroach delights in the cabinet. The peanut butter the man swore he wouldn't touch, on account of his lack of self-discipline, self-denial, self-awareness--maybe just self--is not sealed, the lid at an acute angle, the cockroach rubbing its antennae together.
Gluten-free fish fry with a modern, chic potato salad, Rachel Ray says.
Easy to make on a work night or after the kids get out of soccer practice.
I like easy. Do you like easy? What about fast? That's what I thought.
The power flickers as the power always does when someone on the first floor of the apartment building starts a load of laundry. The man does not stir; he dreams.
But more than that, more weighty a subject than one two three lovers or falling from heaven, the muck of common dreams, submerges the dreamer.
The scene is this: The man is a boy again, three years younger than his waking self. He is in military file with boys his age. It is raining; it is night, the sky a starless miasma of electric blue.
There are men, old men, flat-topped and heavy-browed, walking the rows, handing out hammers. The dreamer receives his.
Now, a man the dreamer knows--just knows--to be the general says, lift up your hammers. On the count of three you will strike the boy in front of you. If you should survive, congratulations. You're now a man. If you shouldn't, we say thank you and goodbye.
One, the general says.
The dreamer does not lift his hammer. Won't lift his hammer.
Two, the general says.
In anticipation of three, boys start striking, skulls fracture, an odd harmony rides the air, hundreds of arms bringing down hundreds of hammers, hundreds of minds punctured, spilling hundreds of future glories and failures.
The dreamer still stands, hammer to his side. His peers groan at his feet. He is alone.
The general, taking long, purposeful strides, approaches the dreamer. He, the general, lifts the hammer in his hand, and with a singular word, three, strikes the dreamer in the forehead.
And it's just as simple as that, Rachel Ray says, presenting the boiled potatoes, baptized in mustard and vinegar, topped beautifully with celery and finely chopped shallots. Now back to our fish.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
behind pseudo sickness you crawl to me,
with your lies like flies between your teeth,
adderall caked on your cheeks. your fingers are
unwilling to leave prints, and i can only shake you
off.
yes, go leave. yes, escape if you must,
but i know any lands you walk on will spring with dead
weeds. because you twisted and turned me for two years,
speaking of love but instead giving me
icy nights and days full of eyeliner streaked tears.
go and live with your “gluten-sensitive” lifestyle,
your hypochondriac tainted glasses, seeing nothing but
no and no and no and empty voids,
running through role-plays that are always so much more appealing then
a beautiful girl who ripped her heart out for
you.
no, i’m not cynical. no, i’m not
angry.
i am frustrated. wishing you had cried for me for weeks, and i know
you didn’t. i am thinking of those bruises on your neck, your
**** buddy" and how your step-sister was a better choice
for you.
so leave, please, just leave.
and no, i don’t want to see you.
you can’t leave ashes in my mouth, not this time.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
in your high chair
you must have been precocious
with your alphabet soup
up there in that lofty charthouse
piloting gluten letters
through a steaming sea of blood red tomato,
making floating islands of toki pona,
"mi olin e sina"
Jan 16, 2011
Jan 16, 2011 at 8:09 AM UTC
Wake,
stretch,
give thanks,
stay blessed,
yoga is a daily meditation,
that always beats a head depression,
mix my asanas with vegetables,
but no pasta nah because I’m gluten free,
stay hydrated and celebrated because I made it,
out of the gutter and into the upper echelons of society,
now I practice Jiu-Jitsu,
with the Gracies in Beverly Hills,
now I’ve got beautiful guy friends,
and amazing lover girls,
see these hands and massage your tensions,
or they can choke you into submission,
I could plant a seed that gives birth to life,
or I could take a life away in 8 seconds,
we can give life and taketh away,
I’d say it’s all just a matter of intention,
and they say that necessity,
is the mother of all inventions,
shout out to Plato for coming up with that one,
as we mold our future like Play Doh,
see we literally made everything we have,
we are literally our own creators,
it’s incredible what we can manifest,
as cliche as that sounds,
see you are the Master of your own destiny,
you decide if you win or lose,
every morning is a new day and a new chance to choose,
don’t let Yesterday’s regrets,
hold you back from Tomorrow’s goals,
get rid of any addiction you might have,
if that addiction doesn’t serve the soul,
see maybe reincarnation is real,
or maybe it’s not,
either way you’re alive right now,
and right now this life is all you’ve got,
to live your life,
that’s why they call it living,
and give thanks before every meal,
as if every meal is Thanksgiving,
see I have a saying,
if you don’t thank God for your blessings,
then you’ll soon have no more blessings,
to thank God for,
so give thanks,
not only to God but to your friends,
and not only to your friends,
but also to your self,
stay focused,
be true,
and remember this is only advice,
ultimately it’s all up to you,
so what are you going to do,
what choices are you going to make,
are you going to be one of the Real Ones that shine,
or are you just going to be another fronting fake,
choose wisely,
and over all be good,
give thanks nightly,
remember to rest well,
get as much sleep as you need,
so you can awake refreshed,
pay attention to your dreams,
and let go of all regrets,
wake,
stretch,
give thanks,
stay blessed.
∆ LaLux ∆
New Book Is FREE To Read & Download Here: www.scribd.com/document/367036005
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 3:17 PM UTC