"hoagie" poems
diabetes
comes from treaties
from the hoagie fest
to the real test:
shrink
and his
****
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC
Whipping chip, clipping the drip,
The droplet of alabaster flat-knock,
Rocking the winded chalice off the fat dock,
Plock, Magock.
Skibdoof, pibby. Dr. Pibb. Dr. Face,
Take'ed off my face glands,
Jovial hoagie,
Mold'ed Imhotep,
Brendan Frasier is my hero.
The Mummy 3, see it in theatres.
C-3
3-Peat
Must See
TV
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 10:29 PM UTC
Another, another! My fine-feathered brother
Tie me to the post and set me alight
I read the many poems you wrote
Please gag me with a spoon
I expect around 6 inches. Hoagie rolls of Garlic and cheese
Subway to the nearest, newest country
Let’s build nuclear weapons
Burn this mother down
I tore my shirt open when I looked at your mouth
The **** that I saw was more than I could handle
Let’s get crazy, baby
Let’s play schizophrenia
Foreplay, moreplay, doorplay, whoreplay
Rhyming is the second cutest thing you can do
With your mouth
Start yelling, I will, I will!
Champagne drownings
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 12:32 PM UTC
And the sun is rising.
A crisp winter dawn is giving birth to this great city.
Rays of light kissing one way signs with promises amidst the building chaos.
The ear-spitting labour song gathers momentum and breaks into a cacophony
of horns panting, rails screeching, breaks shushing,
crowds pushing, rushing to the sound of can I get a hoagie?
a bagel, black coffee, eggs
scrambled into the pulsating clouds
light with smiles and heavy with the fuming of exhaust pipes
contracting to the crowning of car bonnets and head lamps and taxi cab signs
dancing in a place, to a pace and a rhythm constructed, conducted
by a lone woman in blue with benign brown eyes
leading a symphony of brake light beating, feet pounding, bus groaning,
venders sighing, newborns crying, school bus squealing,
pedal revving, fingers drumming, foot tapping pedestrians building
to erupt in a crescendo of a man asking to buy a cigarette for a dollar
and refusing to accept it for free.
To a heavy building door held open by a New York giant inviting me in;
welcoming me to the raw, ragged, rich, beautiful carnage
of the afterbirth.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 9:39 AM UTC
Walking down the street
to get me a treat
at the hoagie fest
'cause you know they are the best
I saw some kielbasa
with some seilgasa
in a brown dish
and it was better than fish
but they were ignored
like a bored board
because hoagie fest is back
and i brought me a sack
'cause i dont wanna lack
any hoagies in my meat sack
but then i got lost
on my way
and i had to say
that it would cost
the big mayne
like any gayme
under the sea
is where i will be
in an octopusses garden
in the shade
cause pulp is gross
in all gardens
even if it hardens
katana knife blade stromboli
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 10:43 PM UTC
I'm eating the last cannoli. Pop's funeral was over a week ago, and since it was the storm of the century that day, the caterer had way too many leftovers. This is the last remains of that infamous day's dessert. It's well past soggy, and smells now of the sliced onions left from the hoagie platters. Those, I'll just toss. No sense risking another death in the family. It's not so delectable, I know, but I'm eating the last cannoli, because that's what pops would do. He didn't waste a thing, symptom of being raised through the depression, I suppose. The depression, yeah, can't let that get to me, he wouldn't want it that way. I'm eating the last cannoli, choking back tears, and pinching my nose to get past the smell of this prose, and an onion smelling soggy cannoli, 'cause that's what pop would want.
Last remains, yeah, those are here too. Dad's ashes, that is. All tidy in a beautiful blue marble box, mom chose for both their internment. She mostly sits staring at the flowers sent, that are about ready to expire themselves. The strong scent of lilies in the air, helps with that odd oniony aroma. I'm eating the last cannoli, because mom is insistent I should. I wouldn't argue with her over it. Neither would pop. So, I'm eating the last cannoli.
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 9:14 AM UTC
Why I am so Beat
Something about...the road, old shoes and sore feet,
motorcycles and wine,
greasy diners and last dimes,
half a stale Hoagie left to eat.
Man, that's
why I am so Beat.
Headed out west from town to town.
Dry-rot houses, faded signs,
Pioneers in rags, so behind the times.
This dead world keeps puttin’ me in a funk,
Pal, that’s why
I’d rather just stay drunk.
Girls and boys in every bar,
From Kansas to Colorado,
Hit me up for drinks and manila tar,
Trying sadly to feel what I do,
Man it’s hard;
That’s why I feel so scarred.
I came out west to find my soul
And saw emptiness instead.
Don’t ask me where I’m heading next,
Cause I don’t know.
I’m friggin hexed.
All I know is drive & drink & sleep;
Man, you know
That’s why I am so beat.
August 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 10:52 AM UTC
10W X 5
Gratitude is eating a big
mud hoagie without
a grudge...
Humility is knowing you
are nothing more than
that mud...
Forgiveness is pardoning
the person who made you
the sandwich...
Faith is turning the mud
hoagie into Angel Food
Cake...
Godliness... giving a piece
of Angel Food Cake in return!
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 8:50 PM UTC
*The first tee shot , the first drop
The first beer , an early morning deer
The course all to yourself with no one else in sight , the first hot dog after the ninth , the first cool day of fall , the first wooded hunt for the ball
The first bogey , a clubhouse steak and cheese hoagie
The first warm day of spring , the pleasure that a gentleman's sport truly brings* ...
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 11:40 PM UTC