Where do we meet
    Oh! No He_*
Getting onto
the next courses
Oh La- La "Cheri"
K>ANSAS>>City
_ Prime spot pretty

 let's >- jump ))) To Love
Please raise the horses

What a skirt steak in her
Petticoat Junction
Going to Kansas City affection
Different tribe or breed
What needs to love me
tender Elvis meet Beavis Buthead
    More  T.L.C  
computer DOC Tick Tock
IRS taking a meat beef
chunk is everybody drunk
IOS what is really the meat
Business Politician Trump

Subscribe well done
Cooked or rare spooked
Taking a Spin City kick
She got canned and licked
The prime meat hot seat

The ******* who arrives
first class steak knifes
Ms. Pork hard chew 
Mr. Beans second rate
Dark pumpernickel
Saloon *******, he
is eating
The young tender
chicken leg

High five thigh? Hands
up Robin Fly
Save the meat "let it be"
  "Let it Be" Beatles
The beat Colonel deep fried
Grade A rare meat slicing

Eating in a board meeting
The pig meat market
of pricing

Doe a deer he loves
International beer
A very sensitive time
Slaughterhouse no way out
His poker face meets
potato heads beef jerky
Surrender Weds
maple smiles picky
The rich Syrup
Disney Mickey Mouse
Kansas City Wonder
meat house

The beauty of animals
"Moms kettle she is talking
to Parrots" meat
the market for rings riot
Six enemies making
6 rounds
Six servants 666 carats
Robin smiles heartily
"Campbells Chicken" little

He's the Beef Man stew
If you only knew
He's spitting tobacco chew
She peels the potato for the
meathead bad to the
T-bone Dachshund I Bone

Garlic knots heart of the
Sausage wearing the
meat corsage Superbowl
My sweet basil good soul
Grilling your bullhead
Pirate Ribeye steak pupils
Mr. "Billygoat" Bachelorette
Hair flat crepe Suzette

Moms Korean style fuss
coleslaw what a seesaw
Playing Porgy and Bess
 Scarlet the red rare meat
Rolling stone baking pin
Mississippi one or two
Under my meaty thumb

Comes in three-4-5-6- Lucky 7
-Crazy 8 furries
Nine meat ribs-10 babies
with bibs
Hungry Man meat when!!
Country plaid tablecloth
"Kansas Men" of the cloth
The Pig approval
Kansas City Mayor
new arrival

Family together eating
Don't eat our animals
Why is life so unfair
Feeding the poor
with cans
The bad cut of meat devil
this is not the "Grade A"
This is not a ring
circus trainer Bullseye

Robin coffee animal-friendly
Two peas in a pod I pods
  I tune like Gods
Were the luckiest people to have
animals  

The Floridian with dog murals
Palm trees green thumb
plants sunshine events
The symphony dog tails
of hunts
Whats to compare her twilight
eyes hold the moment stare
Talk to the animal's hearts care

Butterflies fluttering around
Canoes moving slowly across the subtle waves
Kids laughing and gawking
Bugs flying
Ducks fighting
Families grilling
Couples holding hands
This is relaxation
This is nature

Kid has gone off on her own. House is quiet as a mouse.  No more random questions to answer.  

Just a lonely old man.  Sitting in his yard grilling whatever he can.  Just a lonely old man.

Wife’s gone out of town.  Again she loves to shop. Earbuds in her ears.  The beat goes on.  

Just a lonely old man.  Sitting in his yard grilling whatever he can.  Just a lonely old man.

Friends have all disappeared.  Neighbors won’t even come out and talk. Close their doors and their drapes. Pretend they aren’t home.

Just a lonely old man.  Sitting in his yard grilling whatever he can.  Just a lonely old man.

Who would even notice.  He he weren’t there.  Wanted to help others.  Stuck in a dead end job.  Till one day he just gave up.

Just a lonely old man.  Sitting in his yard grilling whatever he can.  Just a lonely old man.

I look out from yard.  Always said hello. He never answered me.  Must have been deaf.  Now he is gone.

Just a lonely old man.  Sitting in his yard grilling whatever he can.  Just a lonely old man.

Blessed be

poet, or philosopher, it doesn't really matter which is which, or whether the two are indistinguishable, notable in the former scenario, when someone has an eclectic bounty of interest is simply not love-scorned or love-nostalgic, love-idealistic, does it really matter? i was once called a philosopher: a teenage girl said in third person (as if she was a puppet and some-thing was moving her tongue): 'talk to this philosopher'... not in that sarcastic way that philosopher is an misnomer or an abused term of: self-gratifying grandeour, it was quiet genuine, but: imagine my shock... i had an ambition in life, it was to perform a service to thinking: without doing as much as hammering a nail into a plank of wood, that's the ambition of any thinking man: to borderline on telekinesis or telepathy... that was Hegel's modus operandi, his categorical imperative... after all: ego is a metaphysical tool, while thought is its metaphysical canvas... the mere suggestion that a copernican inversion can happen in physics "contra" metaphysics... it's already apparent, any word can behave like a hand touching the sacred object / subject of transfiguration and become something else, even a misnomer can find itself given solace to the user... for now i've forged a belief in the ultimate: away from the absolute in relation to omni in unum - one first has to learn to think, before having to learn to feel... mind you, i don't like the current nietzschean inversion of the cartesian equation: (ego) sum ergo (ego) cogito... esp. among the youtube political commentators, too many examples to give: i'm a classical liberal, i'm a progressive, i'm a liberterian... i don't really like seeing: i am, precede i think... i don't even like the origin-argument of this inversion: i exist for the sole purpose of thinking... after all: i think prior to being, since i can also daydream and not be what my thinking suspects as a possible truth-outcome... that's the nature of the freedom of thought: i don't have to be what i think, i can find thinking to be a pleasure, when the senses do not offer me any pleasure derivative, e.g. eating can sometimes be boring, chewing, chewing, *******... i eat because i need to live: i don't live to eat... i really have under-appreciated Hegel, i should really visit my grandparents for two months and read the phenomenology of the spirit: i'm trying to replicate the saying attributed to him (verbatim), but i doubt that i will, i don't have the patience to sift through all the quotes, but it goes along the lines of: beware oh wordly man, to not be a pawn in a thinking man's game... hence my suggestion of philosophy entering into the realms of telekinesis and telepathy: you get to see things play out and people express the origin story, of your own memetic generation of the original idea... how are poets finally alligned to philosophers? good thing that i studied chemistry at edinburgh university: we return to atoms, words are no longer enough, sure, they are, contrary to the statement...  (why did i under-appreciate Hegel? ah... had my head stuck up heidegger's and kant's *****...

  integration? great!
but i'll meet you halfway...
    i'll eat your fish & chips,
your englush breakfast,
  i won't sing your anthem: god save the queen,
****** anthem, too short,
but i will whistle through:
the british grenadiers' fife & drum...
like i might through la marseillaise...
i'll meet you halfway...
i'm not a former colony member,
commonwealth,
   i'm not some ****- paying bribes
to the british powers
to join in on a world cup of cricket...
this is what happens when immigration
turns sour...
they either lesrn the host tongue,
or they don't learn it...
or they can't distinguish the two:
speak polonaise at home,
speak the hosts' sprechen outside of it...

   if the ******* aren't suspect:
by not being bilingual...
the arab beatles... jihadi john...
          ringo star h'ahmed...
  george ali...
                paul mecca rashid...
oh i'll settle for integration...
but don't you ******* think i'll give
up my mother tongue
for "c.c.t.v." close-ups back home,
home being my private lodge...
like ******* will...
  i'll speak your tongue in public...
but i'm not ******* former commonwealth
****- riddled with a need to play
cricket, "forget" my tongue in order
to compensate for olives
              and sun-burnt bananas!

a former colony ****-**** is about
to dictate the rules for fellow
europeans, on the tram-ride from
Birmingham to Nottingham?
seriously?
        but of course the englishman
will favor the former colony pet bush-monkey
from sri lanka...
since the brit can't really dictate
to a fellow european his superiority
complex... which he can...
with a petted copper skinned
toy-ting...
who brought 'im a korma curry!
nice one, ol' laddy...
        right on the plonker...
                 i'm not finished!
                        i'm just getting started!

gehirnablassen:

perfectly respected immigration,
given that so many english girls just love
the attention their **** minders,
sexually abused,
not really making it as nurses
or... ahem... karaoke superstars
worth the while of britain's got talent
or voice of britain,
or...whatever the ****** show was
that gave birth to one direction...

so a.... brain-drain? good immigration?
the best!

i can sit awhile by myself and count...
1. the sparrows,
2. the swallow,
3. the starlings,
   4. the crows,
5. the magpies,
6. the pigeons,
7. the woodland pigeons
(fatter, with dog collars),
8. kestrels
  (one is enough to begin
the count)...
9. the blackbirds....
10. seagulls... seagulls?! 25 miles from
romford to southend! seagulls?!
this far in-land?! fair enough...
11. a robin...
                   12. goldfinch...
i just sit and watch these birds
in my garden, i sometimes spot
a darting frog in the garden,
i'm more english than the english...
i actually enjoy owning a garden...
the "english" surrounding me
exemplify a bbq. as a luxury parade...
what's so luxury about marinating
some meat, and then grilling it?!
please! enlightend me!

    gehirnablassen...
                   brain-drain immigration,
the type asiatic tiger-mums brag about
at child olympics...
   for the required rubric stature...
******* mothers, basically...

1. χaron χaos - cha-cha-cha       khaos
2. theaetetus - so / ma   letters / syllables:
     graphemes: sz phi theta
      compound syllables (caron s) - Na (sodium)
3. music choice...
       brain damage perturbator ft. noir deco
    virga iesse floruit, gradual of eleanor of
britanny...
4. pride / stubborness (not equal to) honour,
tolerating islam is not the same
as respceting islam...
   german 19th century fascination
with islam...
     θought and φilosophy...
   greek in warsaw, giving him directions,
talks: sounds so much like spanish...
5. england a nation of singletons,
idiosyncracy... social pressures in poland
and even in h'america missing in england
to marry...

1.

chamaleon tongue,                    shape shifter,
bez akcentu w piśmie - więciej akcentu poza pismem
(trainspotting scottish), welsh, cockney,
east london altogether, pakistani english, etc.
e.g. rather, or raver, i.e. not rayver
(someone who parties at night on ecstasy pill)
but ra'ver, like verging on a new discovery,
it's not even the = ~v but is actually v...
english is a chamaleon tongue, you say 'nostic
when you write gnostic, i say diagnostic,
therefore say gnostic, you say 'nome, i say gnome,
as cf. with diagnostic;
then there's the case of the per se:
you say chamaleon - no kappa there apperent, eh?
but there's chappie, chap, chuckles,
no kappa in a millionth chance
to also say nough'ledge for knowledge,
a bit like that gnome of yours...
as i said before: a language without
a written insertion of stressors / distinctions
will produce a massive array of diacritical
stressors / distinctions outside the written format,
but it will also become as complex as to
allow adults with learning difficulties e.g. dyslexia,
and that horrid internet slang of shortcuts:
i ate my 8 when i was late for my disco date
with the cha cha cha melon.

p.s. if there's a hay patch at the beginning, the nasal flute
will ask larry 'the lynx' saxophone to hark it out with rasp
gritting of phlegm... but if it's somewhere else down
the piccadilly line... it will act like a nudist spy and resonate
less than expected; probably mingling with f, i think.

Birds of a feather,
Not unlike me,
Love fine weather
(When it’s pouring tea).
Manners, wine and dining, too.
Mantis, llama, kangaroo.

Overmade, they do make over.
Things so brittle like the rover
Sent to Mars, the Milky Way,
Bounty, sneaky in its way.

Inbetwixt the words they utter,
They choose bread over the butter.
Frying French and grilling Jerry,
Jamming jars of juicy berry.

Duty-bound, they bound off duty.
Flock together! Fly, my beauties!
Plumes all owned. And not one borrowed.
Standing still amidst the horror…

Jokes aside, and folly ousted,
Peace preferred to putrid bloodshed,
They, like me, are hard to find…
Seems, at last, I’ve lost my mind!

.i left an excess of a B somewhere in here... within the confines of a word giblet... i probably thought: bigger... bouncier... gibblet looked better... and so very far removed from goblet... i'm not going to look for it.

i haven't done much today -
and i don't suppose i will finish this day of
with some grand poo'em...
but one can almost be proud
to have perfected a chicken breast roulade...
the rest of the chicken missing
the butterfly? well... bound to a very
decent soup... clear and not atypical
western cream-soup...
but the roulade! the roulade!
no... you don't beat the butterfly *******
like you might turn to: "sadistically"
for a schnitzel...
you do beat the meat,
but you more or less... press down the mallet
onto the meat, until you reach
the right equilibrium of pressure and
there's that squish-sound / feel of the *******
expanding...

if it was a whole roast chicken:
of course i'd stuff the space between
the skin and the ******* with some thyme
infused butter... to capture the richness...
but this is a roulade...
the stuffing? goats cheese... toasted almonds...
fesh dates... thyme...
i might have just over-balanced
the equation with the dates...
but as i explained to the fussy-eater:
what are you implying that we do not
serve poultry with a sweet attache?
cranberry sauce and turkey?
and as i've learned...

it's best buying potatoes from a turkish
outlet by the 25kg bulk...
from a warehouse where the buyers
walk with bundles of money and do not
use debit card "finger" prints...
the free passing of money is still retained
in some tiers of society...
but the idea, regarding the potatoes is
to poach them from a bath of cold water...
once they start boiling leave them for
five minutes, then turn the heat off
and wait for the bubbling water to stop...
drain them... then leave them on
the already turned-off stove to get rid
of any excess water...
drizzle some chilly infused olive oil
onto the baking tray, place each potato individually...
then drizzle some olive oil onto them...
shove them in the oven when the roulade
is finished...
my first most pristine roulade...
of course you have to pan-fry it to get some
colour... the filling is kept intact given that:
goats' cheese is no mozarella...

it doesn't melt and subsequently ooze out...
and the whole lot should be be done within
the hour... the roulade can be pressured
to go for 25 minutes...
depending on the colour of the tatties...
i still had to take it out and "glitter" it with
a 1:1 ratio of honey and lemon juice...
the remains of this juice i designated on al dente
cooked greens... there was no need
for a dressing...
left-over red cabbage coleslaw...
that helps... sweet chilli sauce with some mayo
and crem fraiche...
it even looks the prettier picture:
leftover but it still works...
***** of a ******* butterfly *******!
of course it was going to spit oil back at me,
i was frying the skin... the fat from the skin
was melting the skin was getting crisp
and mingling with the olive oil fat...
also... it's a myth that the temp. should
read: 165°F... that's really just a circa...
mine read 156°F... and given the time i let
it rest...

oh right... this is not a food blog...
perhaps the moon is just too beautiful tonight
to have to attach words to it?
perhaps my love is better left alone and unused
and it doesn't demand sleeper idealism
for it to be celebrated?
it's cooking food... it's not a hip-replacement
surgery...
when cooking was married to chemistry:
i sometimes miss the laboratory
and the cooking up of esters...
my new found calling is in cooking...
and something i... wouldn't exactly want to earn
money for...

and what is surgery if not elevated butcher's ******>antics? oh no, it's needed...
but the meat is supposed to be raw
from beginning to end...
and if i was only given the chance to recycle
a recipe for a stake tartar...
or sushi... well... it wouldn't be much...
esp. when i come into my own
and cook an indian **** of spices...
but then again... the indians butcher their meat
in their curries...
i've come to some serious realisation...
the indians butcher the meat with their curry sauce...
it comes down to baking the meat...
in order for the meat to still retain its
original juices...
i quiet enjoy that little detail of cook...
in that: i don't remember the last time i was
in a restaurant...

i can't imagine eating while having to talk...
conversation over food is no better
than sitting in field of grazing cows
and their leech clouds of flies all bothersome...
with regards to the quality of the meat....
there is always some excess of meat from
the butterfly ******* before you start moulding
them into a shape that will satisfy it being
rolled...
it's a supreme joy working with a whole
chicken... i sometimes wish i was also the man
who could see the whole procedure of:
and be involved in the slaughterhouse...

oh god... the brute village beheading is
rather uncompromising... one chicken is caught
and beheaded on a stump of wood...
the head still moves with its last remaining
short-circuit tongue extending out of the beak
and the eyes roll... and then all the other chickens
congregate and perform a Kuru ritual of pecking
the blood... sipping it...
that's how killing a chicken in a village
looks like... i can't imagine an industrial scale
precision... but i would't mind...

every time i hear of veganism: the ethical argument
i start conjuring up an antithesis of
cannibalism... which is not exactly edgy given
my catholic background (i haven't been
confirmed, personal choice):
this is my body, this is my blood...
i hear a vegan talk i make a fetish of
imagining cannibalism...
believe me... these limbs look akward...
to begin with... where can you find a *******
drumstick of poultry on it?!
nowhere!

only a few days shy off today i made a most
delightful broth of chicken hearts...
i can't explain how the sight of washing...
oh... around 30 pultry hearts feels like...
given that they're hearts and not the entire chicken...
but as ever... the internal organs are a delight...
pork or poultry liver...
poultry hearts...
poultry stomachs...
cow intestines...

come to think of it... you never really cook meat...
you... curate it... it become a fine art specialist...
for those who turn to veganism or the vegetarian
"alternative": perhaps they never curated meat,
perhaps they simply butchered it?
the chicken roulade of butterfly poultry *******
always came out dry-*****?

after all, wasn't ol' Adoolph the one to say:
'hello mr. carrot, hellooo jew no. 1269230 of
auschwitz'... that's the puberty of my distrust
for vegans... they were never able to
cook meat properly... they probably ate
a decent piece of it served in a restaurant...
but when it came to cooking it themselves...
they would have probably butchered
a pasta and never reached the quality: al dente...
either...
and i'm worried that they can't cook
vegetables al dente either...
so it's back to the gulag of roots overcooked
and turned into mush...

oh i believe that meat is butchered...
but it's from the actual butchery...
it's from a lack of respect in how it's finally
"cooked"... well... curated...
are vegans the sort of people that never
ate a stake tartar... or found the most
arisotractic flavours in the giblet?
oh my god... if you can eat a drumstick
of chicken clean to the bone...
and, like me... sometimes bite off
the budding pulp of the bone for the marrow
gnash?
perhaps that's why i own cats...
delicate courtesans of the table...
a dog would go hungry at this table...
sharpnel of bones and some lurking marrow
in the "shins"... and that's about it...

you can never truly be a vegan...
not unless you repudiate the fact you've only
tasted muscle tissue...
what about the giblets and the cartilege?

every time i would perform oral ***
on a woman i could only conjure up one distate...
this is not a steak done rare...
this is not an oyster...
this is not a steak tartar...
there are "things" pulverising this meat...
there's an unexpected pocket of heat
in this... "thing"...
this is a sensation that lends itself
to the pastry section of my diet...
a warm apple pie... a custard drizzle
over some chocolate sponge...
oh qui qui... the marvels of a bilingual mouth...

if the meat is of good quality....
as the chicken roulade i made today...
and there were leftover snippets...
which i fed to the cats...
and the meat was eaten... in totality...
i was eating good chicken...
cats regarding meat are like...
those ancient jobs equivalent to...
Halotus...
god! give me a chance to own a cat!
i'll name him: Halotus!
he'll be my meat taster...
he'll tell me if i'm eating bad meat...
i'm not a Claudius but...
this cat could very well be the next Halotus!
dogs eat leftovers...

beside this one instance of catching
a female mosquito by the leg
and feeding it to a cat...
the most pleasure i ever received was
when i was preparing a rainbow trout
for grilling...
the head couldn't be used since:
i wasn't planning to cook a base fish stock...
so i plucked those pearly eyes from the head...
and my... what a delight they were...
not me... the cat...
i'm guessing that's the equivalent
of me gulping down an oyster...

female maine **** fascination with dairy
products...
any cream will do... even cheap-oh cheese...
dairylee spreadable...
but all manner of cream whipped...
i've heard of cats being fond of red wine...
i once owned one that was fond
of... olive brine...

again: what's with this need for people to cook
your food? what sort of decency of conversation
can one have when presented with food?
i don't like restaurants simply because:
well i can't exactly cook roadkill...
and shooting at birds is not my kind of thing...
so if i can't catch it and **** it...
i can at least: cook it...
i distrust what i eat that i haven't prepared
myself... notably the hygiene dilemma...

it really is on my head whether i'll catch
salmonella when i sometimes drink a coffee
with a guilty pleasure of mine:
whisked egg-yoke and sugar... on top of the coffee...
that's my problem...
but eating is never a synonym with conversation...
and it's never necessary to loiter and wait
for someone to shove pretenses above
the food in the first instance of: the waiting staff...

i blame the rise in veganism surrounding
the people who never allowed themselves to appreciate
the animal: in total...
there's no fun just sticking to ingesting muscle
protein... first you have to cook it properly...
this chicken roulade didn't have to reach
the internal temp. of 165°F - that's a circa proposition...
at 156°F and allowed to rest is just as good...
because it's an art-form to cook meat...
then again: what's cooking and what's about
to be curated?

the people who turn to veganism are also the people
who never bothered with gibblets...
the liver, the heart, the stomach,
in some cases the intestines...
hence my critique of Islams critique of ol' porky Bella...
this most unique animal...
which you can eat in total...
tenga deep fried pigs ears...
again: the cartilege...
ethics my *** if all you know about a pig is a bore
chop or a **** or... you never get into
the knitty-gritty details of the interior of
an animal... lamb is a stinking meat...
it's hell-rot when the male is slaughtered...

oh right! right! how could i forget the star
pinnacle... poached giblet supreme...
the neck... if you know how to eat a drumstick
down to the bone...
poached poultry neck...
the teeth and tongue wandering around
the crevices of this elongated spine...
i can imagine monkey's extended coccyx
tastes as tender... but only among
the macaques...
otherwise: when what's about to be eaten...
can be elevated to a status of ****** fetishes...
gimps in leather...
when rummaging among so many
boyscouts & aenemic vegans...

i'm yet to taste this, one specific, delicacy...
flaki (flački) is not new to me...
i need to marry a girl from ******* Masovia...
somewhere in the vicinity of Płock...
for i can eat some černina...
duck blood and clear broth soup...
as long as most of the animal is used...
the dogs can have the rest
and so can the vegan ethics society...

but of course this is no an anathema...
or some curated vendetta...
all the roots in the vicinity...
even the fungus... can vegans eat fungus?
are you sure?
what about those "thinking" magic mushrooms
that... if you looked into 1960s:
quick-n-easy philosophy courses...
the fungus is the botanical hitchhiker
that strapped itself to the humanoid brain
and... broadened our horizons and what not...
can you eat the godhead 'shroom?
it might just very well be...
that i'm picking a half-brain half-mushroom
entity in some alcohol to allow myself
to ease a tongue out from
its standard formality of the mollusk...
and waggle waggle waggle brute...

but yes... one is most certainly butchering
a piece of meat when one cooks
a broth... or a curry... unless its a gibblet
of sorts...
to "curate" muscular meat in a broth of a curry...
poaching it to death and worse than death:
dry...
it's about allowing the meat to retain its
natural juices...
how else to enjoy a poultry butterfly breast
roulade - with the natural juices still intact?

- i stopped paying attention to these *******
moralists...
if you have ever figured your way around
cutting off the butterfly of ******* for a roulade...
and you know what it feels like
when you stuff the space between
the meat and the skin of them
with some butter and fresh thyme...
and you're still not circumcised...
well... that's what skin feels like...

how else to reiterate? Ava Lauren is probably
the best example of a brothel beauty...
mandible beauty... something that contorts
and appeals to a perspective of cubism...
wretched beauty of the squashed square
into a pseudo-rhombus contort...
at least doing it from time to time leaves me
without a single buoyancy of thought regarding:
am i having enough, am i not having enough:
and if i'm not having enough -
what are the chances of me contracting some
s.t.d.?

bad beef...
again... juxtaposing a reiteration...
there's something worse than visit a brothel...
there's the... visiting a resturant..
i can't stop thinking about alien,
unwashed hands, preparing my food...
it's already one kick-in-the-***** not having
hunted the food... but to be left ******-over
twice by not having cooked it?!

at least if you know what flesh feels like
between the two crucibles of
death's kiss and man's tongue tease...
you will know when...
you will at least know when...
death comes with its kiss...
and its breath... the meat will turn all
yucky... as if a mollusk decided to prance
upon it in an imitation zigzag...

hence? i have no respect for islam because
islam has no respect for Miss Porky Bella!
seeing how most of the lamb -
except for the kidney in a steak pie
is not wasted...
the pig could feed two african villages...
if done properly...
while a lamb would only serve a pittance
for a poor man of yemen harem...

again: the pig is the enemy...
while not making crab meat a haram is not?
vulture meat... scavenger meat...
that's a: o.k. but the sophisticated nature
of the pig: sophisticated in that:
almost all of it can be eaten...
that so much of it can be you would probably
burp out an oink...
done properly...
the giblets in tow...
pity that such a desert god would never
appreciate the pig becoming a dog on
its truffle hog days...

beside all the arguments...
imagine how the "one true god" goes down
on a platter of those ignorant Beijing folk...
Warsaw testing! Warsaw testing!

pristine my *** when all they ever do
is eat the muscles and never appreciate the detials...
no wonder they become aenemic vegans!
at least butchering a vegetable is less of a concern...
you can almost get away with butchering a root...
it is... oh most certainly it is a shame...
when you can't cook meat properly...

but at least i never feel ever as bad going to a brothel
seeing the sort of people who venture into
restaurants...
i don't like being cooked for, i don't like being
"waited" for...
i don't like this modern orthodoxy affair
of a restaurant... i wish these people
learned something about how meat is: never cooked...
and how... it's always most certainly most necessarily:
curated...

pedantic? perhaps... you should have seen
me in that athenian strip-club with two-clingy *******
either side of me... starwberries in their *****
and we are all fine and giggling...
stealing kisses from prostitutes is: truffle hog
"learning" parabolla...

a date and a "promise" of *** is always
a limp **** affair...
i always want to know whether what i'll be eating
still entertain the existence of salt...
or whether i'll have to find alternatives
of: extracting the juices and finding the right
bites...
because love is long over-due and i'm not going
to butcher it further with whimsical hopes...
my love is a dead love is no ideal...
my love is donning a ball and chain of memory:
i have left the better parts of myself
in the wrong sort of people...
they're hardly coming back...
the people or the pieces of me...

but at least i can attest that:
oral *** and the cool crisp gulp of an oyster
passing the Charon of my tongue...
oysters are only fascinating to eat...
because you always want to concentrate
on the fact that: you're eating something that's still
alive... not even a steak tartar or a sushi slice
gives you that hope and thrill...
unless... you're hoping for some tapeworm
embryo being lodged in the flesh...
which how man can almost arrive
at the conception of foetus and womanhood...
i can't be impregnated: exclusively...
i can't be... pregnant: exclusively...
but i can allow a parasitical tapeworm
to become my new-born-*******-out-abortion...

inclusively... how else?!
i'm also tired of being left immoral by the act
of *******...
not unless you know what not being circumcised
feels like... and what chicken skin feels like...
the people at the restaurants...
a palette disgruntled by minor changes of heat...
and... there's always a very precise detail
when it comes to the temp. of a piece of meat
being cooked... and when it's allowed to epilogue
when resting to ****** with all its juices
left intact...

over-sexed society, are we?
at least doing the one-eyed-bandit's favor
doesn't allow me to ferment...
to pickle such repressive thinking...
itself pitched against: in itself...
and these this Radeztsky March forward...
over-sexed also can imply:
not exactly culinarily-savvy...
these are always twins walking side by side...
and they are always siamese problems...
over-sexed implies...
not cuninarily-savvy...
the better part of this critique is already wide open...
why all these cooking channels,
all these cooking programs?
and all this ****?

can't **** can't cook? broomstick! and to sabbath
with you!
i can't no better comparison...
over-sexed and also: terrible at *******...
******* is terrible to begin with...
you can't exactly quip yourself with
having done some lessons in tango or salsa...
the chances are that the *** turns out to
be a laughable take on tango and
you're going to step on a day-dreaming
dancing partner...
it's exactly what's it's supposed to be:
a gamble at best...
but when you throw in bad cooking?
recipe for disaster... bad dates that begin
in a restaurant and arrive at a black-out
bedroom with cockoon *** under
the bedsheets with you gasping for air!

'god let me out! let me out!'

Chemistry:
It is in your kitchen, the way you cook your food
Either it was boiling water for the soup
grilling your favorite steak for tonight's dinner
frying french fries for the kids, for this afternoon's snack or
simply freezing leftover foods for tomorrow's breakfast
and on rare occasions, burning your food to coal
turning your fire alarms on!

I buried my father:

In the St. Augustine Cemetery
I visit at the old gravesite of the deceased annually
I saw the quiet grave keeper still standing there looking dazed and confused
By the looks of things:
My father resting place
still soaks up all the tears

My mother and other siblings said to me
That to visit any one grave site wasn’t their kind of thing

I buried my father underground: It have been so long
Since then, the birds would come to the house of my father
Looking for breadcrumbs from days old bread
The dead will not be forgotten, his name will lives on

When I was a toddler, he fed me white rice with butter
Sprinkled with black pepper and grated cheese:
With my weak voice I was say “thank you: he was so please

I buried my father in the St. Augustine cemetery
It’s one of the saddest places to visit,
Unlike seasonal passes tickets
So adjacent, those graves: so annoying those wild crickets

He might be far away from his home,
but not from our hearts
Everything on his grave seem so square and flat,
But the most outstanding piece was the letters that read
R.I.P:  what I saw was (Rescue Innocent Perry)

Sometimes, I wondered about the dead
About their done deals: their final feast
I buried my father there, but not his memories

I saw the old mahogany tree still standing tall
the pieces of kindling wood, he made for grilling,

I will  always remember him, and I know he might be
Thinking of me, his poetic daughter especially on that day
when I accompany him to cut the branches from the
old Mahogany tree, just to make backyard wood fire
For the family breakfast, lunch and supper
I buried my father: the naïve share cropper:

when the sweethearts left,
we took off our token smiles
and overly-kind eyes.

my roommate grabbed a beer,
quickly ****** it off,
i put on "beat connection" by lcd,
and the derailment of the night
began with some synth and burps.

i made a *** of coffee,
went outside,
the neighbors were having a party,
making a stew,
grilling chicken,
drinking,
drinking,
drinking,
and exhaling enough smoke to signal the natives.

"are you drinkin' coffee muthafucka?"

"hi, i'm josh, and yes."

"the name's chase."

"nice to meet you." *******.

before i knew it chase, our neighbors,
and about three people i didn't know
were in my apartment.

chase looked at a picture of lennon in
our living room.
asked me my favorite beatles album.

"probably sgt.peppers."

"you like that gay ****?"

"if that's gay ****, yes i like gay ****."

he grunted with rednecker royalty.

"the white album is probably my second favorite,"
i offered.

"man, the white album is the ****.
there is nothing else."

someone said they had some fire, if anyone was interested.
everyone was.

there was a dark-skinned boy, with snow white teeth and a fake afro, rapping as i clumsily played an acoustic.
there was a 26-year-old ***** and his 43-year-old wife
smoking a bowl in my bedroom,
there was my roommate vomiting on the carpet,
there was everyone
and
there was
me.
there was everyone
and
there was
me.

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Flames

So bright
so high
giving birth
to  heat
warmth giving
breath stealing
wonder and awe

Flames

Man's pain
destroyer of hope
life stealing
pain dealing
crushing, burning
families broken
memories gone
colors mocking
it crackling song

Flames

Bringing together
bon-fires
get togethers
thrilling, grilling
meats turning
corn popping
chocolate delights
lovers ignites
cuddles, snuggles
without struggles

you see i saw the dietitian this morning and i have to avoid foods

that are high in saturated fats, like low fat milk and low fat cheese

and sardines and tangarines and i have to lay low of coca cola

as well as snowdrops marshmallow chocolate, and i need to

really look after myself, in a way to make my cholesterol low

i can’t have hot chips except for oven fries, low in saturated fats

i can have gravox but it has to low in saturated fat not like fatrty gravy

i am having steak and broccoli and cauliflower tonight,

and i am grilling the steak

i bought some nuts for afternoon tea and i forgot to get the yoghurt

but i can have a tangerine for morning tea and a few nuts as well, dudes

next wednesday at the poetry slam, i am going treat myself to a coke or two

and get back into my meal plan after that is over

you see athena is going to work towards me not getting hungry between meals

but it might not work, seeing i am used to eating too much

you see i still have spurs in my foot, but athena is working towards making my feet comfortable

ya see dudes, i am going to try and make this work, i know i like coke as a cosmic drink

and it may improve the source of my life, but if i work to cutting down on coke

i might lower my cholesterol and i might feel better

you see i don’t want to go in the psych ward again, cause that is where the crazy people are

and i am not crazy, last time i was there i was a artist and writer and i performed

concerts to improve the quality of the inmates life

ya see, i like coke but i might need to cut back, so i can lower my cholesterol

and not make the dietitian say, there isn’t much point you coming here

and i think i will feel better, and think about the stories i want to write

but i don’t want to go to the nuthouse, because they are all delusional

so, dudes, i white roll with low fat cheese and sardine and tomato for lunch

i nibbled on nuts in the afternoon and for dinner i had steak and broccoli and cauliflower

and for tonights snack i will have a tangerine,

and i will try to do this every day, no cream buns for now, no coke for now

my mum will help me with some of the ingredients for what i am going to eat

sardines are good, and so is tuna and salmon

i want to save money, so if i cut back, not give up, just cut back on coke junk food etc

i will feel healthy, and if i feel angry i will write it out of me

like yummy srcummy cream buns and fruit and nut chocolates yuuuuuummmmmmmy

but athena is going to work to lower my cholesterol and make me feel better

because i feel like the forces of evil are trying to get me to do what i used to do, in 1989-90

and i still hear voices of people saying i am SHY I AM SHY, i can tell you one thing, I AM NOT SHY

i don’t want to get fought of killed and i want athena to help me from dying of high cholesterol

you see i don’t believe in fasting, and i want athena to heal my body, with each of my medications

you see i know i ran off my fat and then i became fat again, but then when i was running

i obseesed so much with it, i kept yelling at my schizophrenic voices, so running was really working

but in hindsight, i still want to walk, and hopefully i can get back into running again without the voices

so, come on guys, please help athena to bring my cholesterol down, ok

Coming home from the mass,
body stretches became endless
no hurried showers were done
some returned to bed, everything
was on a slow pace....but then,
kitchen aromas roused sluggish senses,
revealed garlic and onion sauteing,
beef stewing, stuffed fish grilling,
even the smell of parched soil, being
sprinkled with water...became fragrant...
all rushed to the table...for lunch...
..............................................

dessert,­ was a choice...nothing...or,
slices of pie..fresh strawberries dipped
in condensed milk...peanuts, sour
chips, or salty tortillas, with salsa,
all these, over loud talks...whispers,
wholesome family conversations,
where endings are ever unpredictable
...............................................

ea­ch Sunday carries a different mood
...with cups of tea, or coffee, when
discussions are serious, long, hushed...
most times, they're a tall glass of sundae,
with shaved ice, sago, sweetened yam,
or, beans, milk, and sugar........
decisions made, and agreed upon
are the multi colored toppings,
pretty much like syrup.....or ice cream...
...................................................

sev­en days.....with different names...
each family member brings in a new shade
we do our best, to start, and end each day
................with pleasant airs
.................especially on Sundays,
......when families gather together...
..................................................


­Sally


Copyright March 26, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

“I’ve become lost in the cross hairs of love and lust.”
His line of thought became stagnant with no one to watch,
spellbound by her snare looking for someone to care,
her words would trimmer proving to much to bare—
“it’s just not the same, in the way that i love you,
something doesn’t remain.”
A sword breeched his heart that day,
vessel went off course filling with black waters of spite,
lines became blurred, compass askew,
naive conceptions of a roadmap wouldn’t do.
“Rain washed away our chalk, it’s not all lost”
this thought’s become seared,
simmering in his mind until the time would come.
I can’t talk of the grilling in our prince’s kingdom,
except that the tyrannical king, made hell his home.
Acidity was palpable, yet still he continued,
never ceasing words kept him through—
“but I do love you” until the fat lady’s tune,
sulking in the nostalgia of her swoons.
He continued to praise her more than the moon
thanks the sun, for illuminating it’s room,
in the sky, and the stars scream out cries,
for the mangled prince lays waiting only for her shine;
however the lyrics must stop, at some point,
the fat ladies pitch will drop,
until the nightingales love song stops.
Scared to be hurt once again,
a vow has been made that no more friends will be lost,
or bring pain, but this came at a cost.
Drowned by sorrow he knew only one way to manage,
cut everyone out because they can do damage.
Reclusive, seclusive, he shut out all,
friends’ unaware, the ball couldn’t have dropped further;
ashamed, self-disdained the thought feels like ******.
What of the piper that doesn’t pipe?—As grim as tales come,
stuck between a gloc and a hard bane.
“Baring may be impossible” he said to cold steel,
heavier than expected, ice-like to his lips,
sitting against the wall, with a cumbersome grip.
Last text sent “Take care of everyone for me, you’re now the guardian.”
Panic set in friends, but it was all to late to heed.
Until the end comes, he looks into the cosmos of his mind,
and lastly to her shrine; final thoughts unknown,
except to the wall and rug bellow
but here I’ve presumed— “I will love you forever”
trigger pulled, death concludes.
RIP- Clay

Society today
As a whole
Is becoming numb.
We play games
Where we shoot others for fun
**** them
...
Why is it fun?
I can't say
That I haven't tried.
It may be skill
Exploration
Achievement
But that can all be found
Outside.
The sky is still blue.
The trees green.
The grass itchy.
The people laughing.
The party-goers grilling.
Some guns even.
But if you come outside
Don't treat it like a game.
Because it's not.

If my life were a recipe
I feel like every ingredient would be followed
by the word "optional".

8 hours of sleep (optional)
Two to three meals a day (optional)
1 social life (optional)
1 job (optional)
A handful of friends (optional)
A pinch of creativity (optional)
One cup of laughter (optional)
Three heaped tablespoons of positivity (optional)

You get the idea.

But you're different.
You're the one ingredient I can't do without.
You're the one thing that matters
when I can't be bothered with the rest of it.
When all the chopping and sautéing and boiling
and grilling of everyday life
seems like too much hassle,
there's always enough time for you.
You're my quick-fix meal on a weekday evening.
You're a mid-morning snack
snatched between errands.
A quiet evening in on a Saturday
with a bottle of wine and Joni Mitchell playing
"I could drink a case of you".
I could cook you every night.
You're comfort food at its finest
unpretentious, convenient.
Never bland and never tiresome.
You're the one ingredient I'll always have in stock,
that one I'll never let myself run out of.
Because you cannot be substituted.
You, and only you, are not optional.

oh snap.

guess who's back?

I'm one step closer to a heart attack.

these flashbacks drawn from a cutback, turned me into an insomniac,
twas only a matter of time until I had a cardiac

arrest me now, officer. I've done you all wrong.

'cause my heart lying in my breast no longer plays a loving song.

I'd love to play the rest, see who else would try and sing along,
but I best not cause more distress, I know where I belong.


this girl KC.

man, she's killing me.

thoughts grilling me, yeah they drilling me!
this thrilling feeling's chilling me to the core, like it's refilling a sea

that just won't quit. My anchor's heavy as ****.

my head's split a bit, teeth grit cause I'm full of these images of misfits, and culprits
whose crimes I didn't know they could commit-
they're all me- I'll admit I don't have a permit to

park my *** in this waste of mass class.

just mind the sass, my ego's thick as thick glass, and I don't have the strength to be harassed (rn).


hold up
>>Boi

I don't got time for this.

I need help, man, tell me what to do, I'm ******.

this story's this; I miss the abyss in which I could hiss at KC's every bish she brought home,
reminisce that shish in whish I could blissfully talk about french kissing her.

but now I got me a man.

but now she back I've got no game plan.

tell me can you show me again how life is more than her?

There was a black child
stumbling along the deserted road,
heading in my direction,
although I doubt he even knew.

It was the first person I’d seen
in well over a week, at least;
even if he was not the soul
I forever seek, I gladly accepted
his withered embrace.

He looked into my eyes,
and I looked into his.

There was something lost in them.

“Help me,” the boy croaked,
and passed out in my arms.
I cradled him like he was my own,
and in my mind, he was.

I built a fire and laid him on a blanket
that I previously found
in a destroyed supermarket,
inspecting the affecting effects
of total annihilation.

He was more bones than skin;
most of his teeth missing
from tar bled gums,
and his stomach was bruised
from God knows what.

I wondered where his parents were,
and if he even knew himself.

Suddenly my mind
was filled with a flash of flesh
grilling against more flesh,
where anxious fingers dug in.

Tears met as unwanted
satisfaction struck
with remorse,
and thoughts
of a better time.

These visions are something
I will never get used to.

In the morning the boy was dead.

I never even knew his name,
but it didn’t stop me
from telling him mine,
all the same.

This is a confessional poem

but what crimes have I committed?
I have not pled
guilty or
innocent.

Maybe innocent by reason of insanity.

I am not under a lamp
in a windowless room.
No officers are grilling me.
I have nothing to hide
yet nothing to tell.

This is a confessional poem

but what are my sins?
I don't tell those to
just anyone who
asks.

I am not on my knees
in a reverential box.
There is no screen
with a priest on the other side.
I am not being
forgiven.

This is a confessional poem.

But why?
Because I use the
word
I?

All this is
is my pen, my paper,
me,
and you.

And I ain't tellin' you nothin'.

Breakup for the makeup, the *** is is poetry within itself. Loving you is bad for me...it's bad for my self esteem, and it's bad for my health. I feel bad when I see how I make you so weak...to see a grown man tear up, and do crazy **** without stopping to think. You love the curve off my hips, the scent of my hair and my soft full lips. The birthmark on my wrist, and the one on my ribs which you never miss to kiss. The tone of my voice when I'm grilling you, the sparkle in my eye....when you recognize just how much I'm feeling you. It hurts me every time when you doubt how much I love you, because you're not the only one strokin'.....but you're the only one I make love to.

And the passionate kisses tell it all. I got up from your lap and slid off your pants, then ripped down your draws. I worked my way down and started slowly, deep throated your love as I played with your.....You ripped me up by my hair so I can tell you're still mad, then you bent me over and slapped my ***, as hard as you could, and then you put him in me and I gripped every inch of your manhood. And you know I can't take it. Your nails dug into my sides, and thrusted so hard thinking I'd run...but you know I can take it. We switched then I started to ride, the anger in your eyes became harder for you to hide. Repeating your insults to you "I'm a *****, I'm a *** and I'm so ******* selfish." And I gripped on your neck, just as I felt your legs clam like shellfish. Fast and slow, I like watching your face, so I switch up the pace...and ride fast then slow. "I love you." Now I got you, not a second too early, not a second too late. You flipped me on my stomach and I felt all your weight. You started to pant extra hard and I told you to wait. I wasn't done, you pushed my face into the pillow as I felt you ***. Couldn't bring yourself to pull out.....fin.

But we know how your men swim. And I'm not on birth control so let's pray that I don't get pregnant again.

You Use To

drop the turkey

twice on special holidays

glaze the ham

with stubborn certainty

that lime chutney was

just the ticket

Sterno steaks

brought your short lived

grilling career to a

screeching halt

not to be outdone

by the half- cooked goose

with New Year’s champagne

what I wouldn't give  

to see you

greasing

the kitchen floor

with poultry again.

this is americana.

this is the sound of family get-togethers,
or the lack thereof.
the sound of awkward pleasantries
because we see each other
twice a year on the major
holidays. there are birthday cards
sent back and forth, necessary
games of monotonous tag and we
bleed our thoughts in between the
general conversations, we look
into each other's eyes and share thoughts
telepathically. we are not close,
but we are joined.

this is americana,
small town edition.
they call you family as
they look through your cupboards
for ***** dishes. they smile
and laugh with you as they dish
out gossip and revenge. they
stab a knife into your butcher-block
counter top. they sever your spinal
cord and make you a puppet, a
voicebox spitting out the message. they
make you their ***** and they call it
friendship.

this is americana.
grilling burgers and hot dogs
on the fourth of july, fireworks
across the town, city, nation.
you drive on interstates for miles
and miles and miles and every tree looks
the same even with mountains behind it,
until there's nothing but a great red
stretch of desert and you wonder if
the cactus really holds water, but the
honda civic or the minivan or the f-150
is going too fast to stop and find out.
you end up in a thousand starbucks,
a million mcdonalds, a billion little places
filled with a trillion little life forms
and you think about the way home smells,
how your mom made the home baked goods
when you were little but stopped as you
grew because not everything stays
golden.

this is americana.
united we stand, divided we
fall. we repeat a pledge from birth,
more often than we call for our parents
and before you learn what you're
promising. they say our nation is a
melting ***, free of religion, discrimination
and hate. we see a different truth;
we still say "god" as we pledge to a bleeding
country; races of every color suffer, every
gender is beaten down by society, and
we are not allowed to define, to own
ourselves unless we're white, rich, "powerful".
americana is a genre, a taste, a sugar-coated
glimpse into promise and unbeatable dreams.
the truth is we're all in debt, we're being
drowned out by the wealthy, we're all falling
prey to the powers that be.

we are americana, and we are broken.
whatever you believe, let us pray
that there is a chance left to
heal.

We met on a street out in the middle of Brunberry.  Often times, we'd sit on the curb, watching the middle aged man in the corner house fix up his boat-of-a-car.  Or, on Sundays, the chubby, bakery-esque woman would walk her grandchildren down the road to church.  We were young, then.  I still visit that street in Brunberry, and, in fact, it is called Feldspar Road.  The man on the corner, with the old car?  His name is Charles North, and he's a retired mechanic.  The grandmother is dead now, but her daughter and grandkids moved in a couple years ago.  I still come back and check up on those people, and I still watch the leaves fall in autumn and watch water pool around our favorite bench in spring.  The air is just as crisp as when we were children.  Feldspar Road is just as it was when we were young.

--

Just off of Feldspar Road, there is a park.  Really, it's just a wide, open field, with unkempt grass that the neighborhood has picnics and late afternoon barbecues on.  Do you remember when we stopped by the Feldspar block party on your twentieth birthday weekend?  It was warm and the sun was blinding; a perfect July day for grilling out in the park.  You pulled me down onto the dried grass and we watched all of the familiar people gabbing and gossiping with neighbors.  Charles, grandma and the children, that young couple that had recently moved in.  These people were like our family, even though we didn't live here.  They made us feel at home.

--

It's October, and Feldspar Road is coated in bright yellow leaves.  I haven't heard from you in a few months, but I'm sure you're doing okay.  You've been busy with your new friends at your university a few states away.  Feldspar misses you, as do I.  Charles is getting old; his car sits, rusted, in the driveway.  The young couple got divorced, and I'm pretty sure the girl kicked the boy out of the house.  Things are getting dark, despite the turning leaves.  I do sure hope you're doing okay.  The park has a playground, now, and the few children in the neighborhood play there after school.  I've memorized jump rope rhymes, patterns in cat's cradle, and the hardest hopscotch courses.  I know you always loved kids, and watching them play makes me wish you could be here to laugh along with me.

--

I moved out to Kentucky this April.  I needed to get away from home, and away from Feldspar Road.  I visited much too often, and after Charles died, and all new people lived on the block, I felt out of place.  Whatever made Feldspar feel like home was gone.  It's been years since I saw you, and I can only assume you've found someone to love, someone to lay in the grass with, someone to marry.  Me?  I'm starting to meet new people in the area.  I like to spend my time out in the fields by the border.  It's quiet, unless you count the crows and crickets.  It's peaceful, and standing there in the breeze, with the wheat up to my chest, watching the sky turn bright orange in the evening, makes me feel a bit happier.  A little less lonely and a little more at home.

Sky
entertainment for the people
interactive entertainment to displace frustration in Hades
the subhumans awaiting grilling get restless and linger in pain
give us Sky, give us distraction and lend us artificial
power
Let us play our loaded dice
and give enforced disappointment and scripted drama
to pull strings and holler that we can control
In our hell, we can find relief in giving hell to another

Sky
entertainment for the people
we want to salivate over manipulating emotions
we want to to throw our loaded dices, cheat and deny
mess around with sky and give vent to our helplessness
savagery of the blood thirst to us of the down syndrome
mental abuse and mental cruelty is the new black
ours is Clockwork orange from the Ghetto minded

Sky
get up and do as we want
the majority want you to be put through the  mill
emotional vandalism and we're tripping for we are more
nobody dares disobey us for now your choices is nil
we the ringmaster has the dancing bear with the electrified ****
that is power in our feeble hands and we because we are wounded
because we are sadist and cheap bullies and its a numbers game
because we are in pain and the gas chamber is now obsolete

The glorious morning
The peaceful night
Why anticipate for the paper view fights?
These guys aren’t Mohammed Ali
unless they got better records than I see
He would knock them out like one, two, three
He wouldn’t even have to have his eyes open
But why won’t theirs open?
Oh now he marks his territory for the millionth time
But sometimes you have to reiterate yourself again and again
That’s how he felt
From the days of early youth to the day he could wear his own belt
You can’t surpass him easily
I’m still looking for a contender
You can tell by the looks of the Bartender
Waiting for the old tapes to render
He shakes his head while he wipes off the ***** cups
Wishing he could make up
For his past mistakes
On quitting boxing
His grades were below the Mendoza line
He reassured his Mama that he would be fine
But little did he know this would set him back further than a state fine
Reading between the lines and not over them
He became one of the common crayons in the box
But a little darker than what we hoped for
And now he’s got the memory of the Prison Guard knocking on his door
Letting him know he can come out for recess
But all he wanted was to be the best
He hated the white walls so much he redefine the word detest
He just ended up like the rest
That at that moment, he wished the prison guard would shoot him dead
Numerous attempts of trying to take his gun
The consequences were the antonym of fun
He had miles and miles to run
Before they let him go easy
But that whole time was far from it
He just thought heavily while he heard the horrible sounds
Why do I feel like I deserve to be worse off than the people laying underground?
Will anyone bother to play a game of lost and found?
Just like those kids in those cliché films?
It was great relief to him when he was starting to think better thoughts
But he knew he had a lot of ocean to cover
It was the space time continuum for him
The Enterprise had more to bargain for than the high prizes
Seeing his own waters rise
Not to any of his surprise
He woke up franticly in the middle of the night
Hyperventilating, panicking
Knowing it wouldn’t be alright
The nightmares were wrapped around his mind so tight
It felt like two anacondas gripping him stiffly
He could escape
All those transgressions he made
Were coming back from the graveyards he once dreamed of in his wake
Right from the lakes
He couldn’t even eat the smallest portions of Frosted Flakes
Without breaking down like an old building
It’s thrilling for the mind
But only for it to let it all out
It wasn’t easy to overcome
But it took plenty of years of therapy to rewrite the story that he really wanted to tell
Telling the world how hard he consistently fell
No big deal, just a few scars and small quiet thoughts
But nothing worth a horror plot
It seemed like his worst days were behind him
To take that literally would be logical
A word many of his peers did not understand
They were either locked up or already dead
He overlooked the warnings of his teachers in school
But he just became another victim of Mr. T
I pity the fool, he chose to be an inept tool
Not the dull ones you buy at a department store
But the ones that need repairs and somehow make their way out
With no improvement at all
It can be pretty apparent why our proposed empires fall
The pitfalls can engulf us extremely
If we don’t handle things supremely
If I never had the guidance I received, where would I be?
Not writing these rhymes
Not telling you the times
Regardless of my previous struggles, I think everything will be fine
He went from prisoner to bartender, which may seem like it’s crossing the line
But knowing his past, the way he was doing time
He was just thankful he had a job
Now, who wouldn’t?
That’s the question I want to see answered
It’s going to be crickets for a long time
So I might as well stay here until I hear one
Because there’s no chain to be undone
Nowhere left to run
Let’s rebuild the lives of those who had nothing to begin with
Because if you were put into that place, I don’t think you would handle it too much better than them
Your life is amazing compared to them
But it’s not the cleanest gem
There’s still a few black holes here and there
But you shouldn’t mark out the reasons to care
There’s a lot more wisdom to be shared
The rest is up in the air
I don’t expect anything from the world
But I just expect better from people
That’s what encourages people to become teachers
So you can do better than they ever could
Instead of being caught in the middle of the hood
Being dangerous, mental and misunderstood
That’s the worst way to be as a human being
We’re just looking to help
Hoping to make an impact
More so than a meteor if it wiped out Earth entirely
But these kids do so when they decide to slash a cop’s car tirely
What’s that under your shirt?
A gun?
Well, Momma isn’t going to like this
You should be thrown in jail but I’ll bestow a probation
And an immense amount of community service
This isn’t a play, so I won’t rehearse this
So tell your Momma like it is
And change your life today
Because with this type of activity going on, there won’t be a Sun to look up to
There won’t be a freshly cooked meal by someone who deeply cares for you
There won’t be anyone who can take you to the Zoo
On days and weeks repeat
There won’t be a fresh batch of wheat
Sliced for you
In the requirements that must meet
Or the brand new sheets replaced weekly
What life will I live if I continue to play with fire?
Will I be unemployed and be stuck from hire?
Because that’s what happens when you play with fire
You get burned
Not from these verses
Not from these lines
But the way you go about your actions
You’re paying a permanent fine
That won’t ever wash away
So choose the lighter side today
Maybe people will overlook the bad choices you made today
And go along with their days
Like nothing happened, still entrenched in the back of their minds
Seemingly impossible to find
Going onto their morning grinds
But nowhere close to what you’ll be doing when you pay for your poor choice
The game of chance isn’t forgiving
It will take you over and pay it’s bidding
Keeping the smokers from quitting
The cheating players from winning
The happy pill participants from grinning
And the aspiring cookers from grilling
But I know that’s not the biggest culprit
But as long as I know it
I’m not going to bring it up again
We’ve seen that printed before
My central themes pop out galore
Not giving the other side too much more
Now I’m trying to experiment a little more
And not be the broken tools in those department stores
And trying to find what excites me more
Than the same old drag
That floats in a plastic bag
I’m starting to loathe people who think I’m a couch gag
I’m really not into shows like JAG
They just don’t resonate with me like they should
Some things are triumphant and grab me more than what most things ever could
And I reference them like I should
I don’t always follow the classic formulas
It’s not like I never could, but I see it as I never should

vendors shouting prices for the goods they can't afford,
birds singing painful tunes in tribute to the sun,
mothers yelling at their restless children,
still tired from fighting with dad last night,
steam blowing from cracks in the old brick buildings,
stoners taking hits and sharing pipes with kicks,
shooting poison in their veins
and killing their chances of waking up in the morning,
food sizzling and boiling, grilling, cooking , and even broiling,
smells from old shoes, garbage, day-old chinese take out,
dwelling helplessly in the dark abyss also known as the alleyway,
high class women walking proudly in heels,
with cellphones to their ears,
partygoers stumbling in huddles down the street,
reminiscing about last nights rave,
alcohol still in their veins
the sun hasn't yet come up,
but the city never sleeps,
and neither should we

I went to the beach today,
There are ruins and a small enclosed bay.

It once was an amusement park,
But the only thing left is a big mossy old stone arch.

I sat on the bench and watched the people and the lake,
A lot of family's where there playing ball and grilling stakes.

There was one couple that stood out to me,
It was a teenage boy and girl, they chased each other around the beach, they looked so happy and free.

They then flopped down into the soft sand and lay down and looked at the clouds above,
The boy held her hand and kissed her softly, a way to show his love.

They both then sat up and began to gather sand and make a sand castle,
They worked so gracefully and in sync, there wasn't even a hassle.

When they finished, they began to write in the sand:
" Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone - we find it with another."
They then signed their names and walked away hand in hand.

This put a smile on my face,
And put my heart in the right place.

'That is the true meaning of love.' I thought as I walked away,
And it gave me hope that I will have a relationship like that one day.