"kibble" poems
This was just published so it is copyright 2015 by Holy Cow Press ~ mce
Poverty is the fence around your life. Poverty wakes you up at 4 AM only to whisper meaningless slogans in your ear. It is the school of Piranha nibbling at the back of your brain. It is two hours waiting in the anteroom of despair for $22 worth of food stamps and being glad to be there. It is changing your phone number frequently because bill collectors are such boring conversationalists. It is the empty space your heels used to fill. It is letting your hair grow long and scraggly and your grizzled beard sprout because you know that although you sleep in rented rooms tonight, the street is not far off, and you want to fit in when you arrive. Poverty scalds the lint from your pockets. It is your private Treblinka within which you rage but are crushed. It is desperate prayers against dental catastrophes, blown tires, surprises of any sort. Poverty is when everything you own is frayed including your nerves from sleepless moments spent trying to solve the equation that will make X number of dollars cover X + ? number of bills, knowing that such math would defeat Newton or Einstein. Poverty is eying the cat's kibble imagining that with a bit of sugar and a splash of milk it might be fine and then eyeballing the cat himself thinking of protein of last resort and trying not to measure him against the microwave door. You ration your cigarettes; whiskey is a fading memory. Passing a diner on the street, you catch a whiff of burgers too expensive to consider and experience a Pavlovian moment. Poverty is trying to keep your head up and then remembering you pawned your neck. Poverty is watching the needle eat your last few gallons of gas. Poverty is the archeology of despair. It portends the death of irony. There is nothing ironic about a car with 217,000 miles and no insurance on it. Facts are facts in the world of poverty. Poverty is the last quarter reclaimed from beneath the cushions. It is too much time and not enough quarters. It is the specious logic of the self-righteous proclaiming that you deserve to be poor because you are, which in Amerika passes for wisdom. Poverty makes each day like the next because nothing does not vary. It is who you are and where you are going, although you won't get far. It is the life you lead inside the fence. It is the sum of what you lack. It just is.
- mce
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC
foisting up at the strop of yawn
i remark,
impared
at the bluffers worn
it is kildy and capy
i'm underly mistaken
i plonder on my clothing
and part the towd ranglings
blind are the dawnings
it's still a mite
at four gone the night
and more a tune til the mourning
i am blowtard and sworn
i mumble back to kibble
and a mount full of scorn
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 9:37 PM UTC
such a treasure, and a chore! I have bought the local store
out of bleach, vinegar, baking soda, ***** and kibble.
A bother, yes, when I try
to walk to the bathroom or refrigerator
without being tripped up, and I shuffle along now,
I don't dare to lift my feet for fear of hearing a wounded
yelp. And bad breath, I thought the drunk begging a dollar for a small bottle who lives under the bridge when he asked, "spare a dollar, mister?", and my
eyebrows sizzled , had bad breath. These treasures breath smells like they eat and drink from a septic tank.
Let one whimper or get on their back legs begging me to pick his or her little sticky *** up, and I put it on my chest and watch her , or him, get all cozy listening to my heart beat, and it seems worth it.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 8:16 PM UTC
She may walk through crowds
unseen
An advantage of her age
poking through products
at her own distracted speed
Feeling fruit or sniffing soap
Reading labels
fine print through two pair of glasses
turning slightly
hoping no one sees...
how gone it's getting....
She may lean on cart at check-out
just shy of your usual...
Old
who ask for double bags
Nope, she will not slow the line that way
Remembering work
assesses pain
shifting weight to other leg
to spare an aching knee
Not one for counting desperate change
Not arguing every item on receipt
Not fumbling coupons
nor writing checks
...will not slow the line...
reluctant to let go of youth
Remembering exhaustion's day
she will not slow the line that way--
Fiddles with smart phone
(Yes, she knows how!)
to pass the time
She fumbles through her purse--
God only knows
what “old folks” look for
Probably glasses, tissues, gum,
or
"Where the hell's my keys!"
Stopping by a news rack
on the way out
Is she waiting for a cab?
Who cares!
Outta way, she stops to read
The New York Times, WaPo, Journal
Thee chapters of a novel
Outside their pay-walls
The mind beneath the woolen cap
is at it
grazing once again, for free
Where she often likes to feed--
her curiosity
No one sees her watching
from the inside out
and the corner of her eye
But what to do about that cat litter?
or ½ and ½
on highest shelves?
she simply cannot reach....
Always some tall good-lookin' guy around
to flatter
his size
looking for dog kibble, “big game snacks” or beer
She plays
the old lady card so well
...and somehow
gets what she needs
Jan 5, 2018
Jan 5, 2018 at 4:41 PM UTC
A black and white film
About an old man and his dog.
There is no dialogue.
Just ambient sounds -
First, of the alarm clock’s
monotonous song.
Followed by an abrupt
cutting silence as his hand slams
down on the snooze button
Then, the sound of a coffeemaker
spitting and burbling.
The coffee, pouring into a chipped mug.
Sugar, then milk,
the clink of the spoon against the ceramic
as he stirs
the long first sip
As the man looks curiously
at something on the fridge,
just out of frame.
A bag of dogfood opening.
hard kibble ringing against the metal dish.
The dog grumbling - impatiently waiting.
Tupperware opening
The hum of a microwave, and the beep.
Last night’s stew poured into a bowl
the rest, over the kibble.
The closed caption reads:
[Enthusiastic, sloppy eating noises]
The sound of water running
as the bowls are scrubbed clean.
The door closing as the two leave
for their morning walk.
The old man and the dog
are now sitting on a park bench.
The grass, still wet from the morning dew.
There is a beautiful sunrise
over the nearby lake.
The camera pulls away,
as music overtakes the diegetic sounds
of nearby parkgoers, birds and runners,
and teens playing hooky.
The camera cuts back to for a beat
to the kitchen
in the empty house.
The camera zooms in on a weathered
and well loved piece of paper
held up by a rainbow magnet
on the refrigerator door.
Fade to a black screen,
with white letters:
Fin.
Sep 12, 2022
Sep 12, 2022 at 9:43 PM UTC
:AQUARIUS:SEPTEMBER:
Last month you saw Marilyn Monroe riding sidesaddle on a bicycle. Her cream colored skirt billowing as she passed you by. You noticed she had aged. She was gray and lined but still beautiful.
Last week you saw Tupac walking to work. He clocked in a few minutes early and kept his head down. During the lunch break he talked to you about settling down and starting a family. He used the word "suburb" and you almost gagged.
Yesterday you adopted a dog who had been hit by a car. You gave her a name and a yard and a bed and grain free kibble. She's fine now. She doesn't even seem to notice her stitches. She sits on the porch and barks at squirrels while you fold clean clothes.
Today you realize you have learned to raise the dead. But only so they don't remember themselves. Only so they have no recollection of who they were before. Only so their lives are blank boards.
You are afraid of your newfound powers, but with Mars in your house you will learn some control.
"Don't bring back your mother," you repeat like a mantra.
You won't feel restraint until the 21st.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 3:06 PM UTC
this love is now & new & once again
stabbing @ me like durga-like diety
with sweet golden daggers
an essential togetherness
teasing out of these odd surroundings
I was listening to Jack Kerouac on the way
home in his mad
bop rhapsody apocalypse
streaming out my speakers
while familiar streets crawl past
once again
I'm thinking
as the day old glum spread over me
& out to envelop all I see
how little different to be watching
seeing street signs all opening
into cul-de-sacs and open storefronts
paraded in the endless traffic flow
now bent slow over
feeding my cat crab cakes
that my mother made
myow myow, he goes
& I acknowledge
myow myow, he goes
& I answer
what?
what in god's name is
the matter with you?
myow myow
his solemn reply
licking @ a piece of
exposed claw meat
nestled among old bits
of dry brown kibble
how about this soul?
how about this life?
this sickness?
how about this always seeking I?
how about he music of my mind
in untraceable car rides alone?
wherefore to I wander
ceaselessly in search of what
wonders where I might be
born on the road of least descent
cat paws, grabs @ bottle caps on
grained wood table
my media
fizzles & searchlights
in my window
there is something I'm not facing
something inescapable, my love
like you
born of locusts in the dust, my love
like you
my weary dune-mother
how solemn are the tunes that run
thy face, o' mother and thy will
how broken are the lines upon thine
shining brow in bedroom windows
open to the world like peace
stolen in the sad glance I gaze @ everything
stolen is the cup I fill @ leaking kitchen
sink pipe strands of scent or bark
of neighbor dogs amusing grass flow
weather flowers under well I'm never
knowing what--I never will
no matter, all is well
another's all is nothing now
where knock goes streaming
crashing loud
like anvils in the rain
it's only me
how now, my dear contender?
like a shadow fallen into sound
how now the planets unwatered?
how now the roots are killed?
we all inhabit the same fears
how rabbit hides his smear
to give me a surprise
for me, none so dear
than the mystery
& April dies today
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 1:54 AM UTC
His dead wife used to spit. He tells me this on a hot July day on his porch. “Yeah, a whole fifteen feet,” he boasts. He’ll laugh, but I am noticing his large golden cat with her eyes half closed, dreaming in the summer heat behind the open screened windows of his old house.
He collects newspapers, and they lay in yellowed stacks that I can see beyond his open door within the stillness, still tied up with thick cord. Some of them rustle lightly at the corners, swaying up and down as his electric fan rotates this way and that. I momentarily question how fragile they’ve become with age against the hum of blown summer air, but his slow almost-southern-drawl takes me back in and I shield my eyes from the sun with my arm, keys in my left hand, sweat at the back of my neck.
The roof and trees have offered limited shade, and I’ve leaned against the side of the concrete steps to feel the coolness of the bricks against my knee. I’ve meant to go for an hour now, but he keeps me here with a, “Hey, y’know—” and another story will follow.
About his son sometimes, who he always says is also his best friend. I’ve never met him. He’s like a ghost of someone I think I could know but he remains unnamed and I have never questioned it. He’ll continue on —how he wants a new dog but he doesn’t know how his tired self would keep up with a little pup, and his fat old cat —oh, could I feed her this Friday and Saturday? “I might go out and see my son.”
I say that I will with a small pang of jealousy. She curls around my legs in her eagerness, unaware of her master’s weekend absences, purring at her first few bites of small, orange fish-shaped kibble.
When he is tired and doesn’t feel like driving he’ll take the city bus out for his errands and call me with his “cell-you-lar” to see if I can pick him up. “If it’s no trouble,” he says. It isn’t. I’ve taken him home on several other occasions.
His thank yous are quiet, but I feel them anyway. He is nothing like my father but some part of me hopes that when he looks at me he is seeing his son just as much as I am seeing all the years of neglect and false hope all wrapped up in this lonely man.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 4:53 PM UTC
a quick word for paula lee
and pamela rae
members of
the ditzy is as ditzy does club
may i join you ladies fair
my applicatory action
took place this morning
while labouring under distraction
i washed my husbands(a chippie) workwear
with cat's chicken flavoured kibble
it is now out drying on the line
with a row of cat's divine
staring at the brown streaked
grime in nose wrinkling adoration.
so ladies i think i made the cut
and can become a fully fledg-ed
member of this club refined
of absent mindedness defined....
(i plead pmt ...
intelligence in, sharp decline)
what say you..
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
A yellow dog lies
in a yellow field.
Thinking of greener days,
legs twitching in canine dreaming.
Of fresh water, and tasty kibble,
a special stick thrown by its master.
Rusted stripe down his back,
a flag of sorts, dogged wisdom.
Ten years old, he still has some spry,
a spring in his lope, a point yet to fang.
Eyeteeth seeing all, pink nose knowing
the smells of this field.
Where the rabbits burrow,
where the squirrel makes it home.
The far off lament of distant freight trains running.
A yellow dog sleeps in a yellow field,
a small white cross marking his bed.
He will run forever in yellow fields,
Running, and dancing amongst the golden stalks.
Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 6:15 PM UTC
Bury me with a pen in my hand and a spiral notebook if you can
So I can continue to scribble my words of kibble
Of a lifetime in line tasting all of life's nibbles
You can't cut in line when it's not your time to go
But the best desserts are served last, this much I know
Until that time when I say my final goodbye
I write in awe of a life that makes me laugh as I cry
So special this life it must be immortalized
Or risk memories fading as dreams never realized
But after I die with a pen in tight rigor mortis grip
Throw in some paper for my next upcoming trip
Boldly or timidly, I'll ask my God to decide
Whether I enjoyed this gourmet banquet that He did provide
(and did I get my fill before I died?!)
Because I'm the one that writes my own menu
With every bite of life that I do chew
The price I pay for all of these nibbles
Are purchased by all of my handwritten scribbles
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 2:11 PM UTC
**** it,
imma go to the store
and get a few more
beers and some marlboros
im stumbling
all over the place
making circles in the hardwood
with my feet
and swing doors in the air closed
with spaghetti in my veins,
but imma make it,
imma shut that *******
dog up
too,
keeps barking,
shut the **** UP.
"That's Rob's dog,"
Elcie says,
spit ripples at the corners
of her mouth,
and some baked ziti
is rumored to be
in the toilet.
That ******* thing
is getting six 60 milogram
perky sets in his morning kibble,
right after I puke
some more baked ziti
and wodka.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 12:49 PM UTC
Moon on the horizon.
Soft breeze rattles the
brambles out by the
old barn.
The cat enters, looks
about and begins to
speak.
“Fears take flight after years
of drinking the tears away
while the days responsibilities
are laughable in the light of
satori's brilliant realization.
Silly, silly man, thinking reality
something to achieve, a destination
to discover, a journey to undertake.
Listen and I will tell you what little
I have learned burning away my
short time on this horizon of
understanding.
All that is transitory is a metaphor
for the eternal and all that is eternal
is a metaphor for the self.
The self is the collective consciousness
we all share and what we share is our
experience of being.
Being is nothing but an illusion created
in the mind of God while God is simply
a metaphor for eternity in the mind of
man.
Now pour me some kibble for I know
many things, but do not possess opposable
thumbs”.
I woke with a start, cursing the spinning
room and swearing never to mix Jameson
and Absolute again.
The cat finished her kibble and crapped
in the litter box.
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 12:52 AM UTC
That tail doesn't taste as good as it looks
running in circles to see what's ahead
Breaking backs contorting to accommodate
what is too big for one man to contain
A trail of kibble leads a line of zombies
lost to the truth you pretend to be
16 personalities for 16 needs
and the line grows to criminal proportions
following the hope of a smile
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 12:36 PM UTC
How does one feel when they glimpse
the pure night sky?
Alone,
Enthralled,
Fascinated,
Questioning,
And yet,
Dismal.
For we see only half, of the whole truth.
What stars?
I have seen the stars,
This is not their irradiant glory,
This is a poor semblance,
A portrayal of our Ignorance.
We cannot see
The stars,
By our own hands we have blinded ourselves,
From the single-most
Awe-inspiring,
Demoralizing,
Ego-diminishing experience,
And it shows.
Constantly busying ourselves,
we fail to make time to gaze skyward and
dwell,
When you look at the sky, you are
Forced to question.
Those who do not look,
Do not question,
Those who do not question,
Accept,
And those who accept,
are blind.
Blind,
Deaf,
And dumb.
Led here,
Led there,
From pasture to pasture.
Fed ideas like they’re kibble,
And the dogs are hungry.
It’s a dangerous thing,
to gaze up,
There is always the chance
Of choking
On your own existence.
How will we awaken the masses
From their eternal slumber?
A difficult task when
their heads lull ,
from the self-induced hypnosis.
The light is what we need,
And they stars,
They give it.
But we drown it out,
and substitute it with
the eternal hum of the artificial glow.
Deprivation,
The population thrives on it.
Honestly,
I would be stunned,
Nay, terrified,
If every mind awoke to the reality,
of the vast insignificance.
You can hear the minds imploding.
You can feel the torrent
of individual thought.
Danger.
Terror threat level Severe,
Burning red.
I have seen the stars,
Filling every void in the infinite blackness,
Radiating their celestial secrets,
Tantalizingly close to revelation,
Yet lost in translation.
You find your true self,
When alone with the stars,
No one except,
Your thoughts.
Oh,
what a dangerous place to be,
Floating somewhere between consciousness,
and stellar knowledge.
Will you rise to the Astral Summons?
Seek respite
from the electron hum,
Find yourself under the endless
luminous canopy,
And question.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 9:49 PM UTC
Tacked onto cosmos,
Soft light,
Eradicating an opposite,
Dreaming life into fruition,
Kibble,
Bring lips
Down, among trenches & arcane
Never rest
Context, infinitesimal in journey,
Nexus at best
A hammer through your letterbox,
Covered in spit,
Listened to through callous hands
Knocking on the complex,
Chamber of advents
And unleashing the deepest, unknown secret
Flattened, stretched Ambrosia,
Content enabled metropolis,
Slowing the progress of atrocity
Into dawning backward birth
Orders in place,
Genus
Chronicled in ordnance,
By gated communities,
Escalating the calamity by force
Embargo transcend,
Glitter on abound, endless
Pardon the boredom
Lapped, lipped, tapped, trusted
Trying to find balance
In amongst leaves,
Leaving Earth
In a ship fueled by discontent
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC
*
In later years, my writings tend to incorporate hope
I hint at it, allude to it, or even praise it outright
But I have so precious little of my own...and I wonder why
I thought of Pavlov:
If a dog is beaten every time it approaches people food
Eventually, after years of abuse
That dog will cringe whenever it sees a delicious morsel
To the point that the dog could be left alone with a steak
Without daring to sniff at it, likely afraid to even consider it
I realized, I _am_ that dog
Beaten down by life, disappointment, tragedy, solitude
Driven to terror by the possibility—even the hint—of hope
I wonder if there are any therapists out there
Who accept payment in kibble...
*
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 12:11 PM UTC
It doesn't matter
What you do
Some dogs
Are prone
To sing the blues
Drearily howling
Slobbery drools
*** sniffing
Hairy and smelly too
Yet somehow
They keep their cool
After all
What's a dog to do?
Woofin at the neighbors
Chasing down the squirrels
Peeing on the lawn gnomes
Looking for referrals
Chowing down on kibble bits
Hey, it's just a doggy gig
Playing Frisbee in the yard
And catch, with sticks, not twigs
I wish that I could have his life
The fun would never end
'Cept for that part with knives
No ***** to call my friends
..............................................
Stick Man and the Clock Eyed Skull
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 10:26 AM UTC
Shh! Quiet down
Shut your mouth.
Hear that sound?
It's drowning you out.
Listen close.
Silent as a ghost.
The whimpering
The barking
The biting
The fighting
Do you see them?
Inside your life's hole.
They're there
Fighting for your soul.
One dog,
Black as night
It seems as though he's winning the fight
The other,
Brighter than light.
Covered in wounds, he doesn't move.
I kneel next to the ****** hound,
But I leave kibble all around.
The black one eats
'til he's had his fill.
The white one lifts his head for a crumb of strength
I push his head back down and stroke him lovingly
But comfort means nothing when he's dying
The black dog's finished, he comes up beside me,
His head in my lap.
The white dog's crying.
The puddle of blood grows
I am being swallowed whole.
I see the flames beneath
So I jump to my feet.
I lean over to see.
The black dog's tail swings side to side
As he looks his master in the eye.
Is it possible for a dog to smile?
I begin to fear
I pull the white dog near.
The dark one growls
My heart rejoices
"I don't understand"
The white one wails.
His eyes close.
Stillness covers his tail.
My eyes overflow
My face breaks down
My hands grasp out
I'm falling down.
This agony is leaving
My chest no longer heaving
But the black dog grabs me
Pulls me from peace
Tosses me aside
I lean on the beast
I look to the white dog
Sadness fills my heart
But then,
His eyelids part.
But the black dog has quite the head start.
Apr 5, 2012
Apr 5, 2012 at 2:09 PM UTC
Perhaps you aggrandize
Those sacred manifestations
Lupine resonance
When the moon takes a cooler hue
Ebbing in the western sky
As I scurry
Furtive in the wake of wolves
Cavort under cover of shadows
The darkness lenient
Diana's placid orb obfuscates
Any deeper meaning
These solo notes from husky throats
The soul’s chronicle lost
Your hackled superstitions don’t abet me
Demure dogs shiver on silvered chains
With the acumen of stones
They throw themselves
Lick the hand of the master
Fawning malleable in your fettered life
You crave the panacea
Of stagnant water and stale kibble
Trade these wild cries for silence
Shrink from the eminent colossus
Freedom is the howling nemesis
Beyond your black and white vision
You never see
The multifarious color of coyote dreams
TL Boehm 070508
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 6:19 PM UTC
he is four legs
sees the world
by everyone's
knees.
a soft
saliva-coated
existence,
measured in pants.
governed by rough-hewn
kibble
Not sure I
would wish
reincarnation as a
dog.
May 24, 2011
May 24, 2011 at 9:44 PM UTC
almost every day
as i walk the dogs
up the hill
two crows
wait for me
at the entrance
to the woods
they swoop low
cawing as they land
on the sign post
or sometimes simply
a matter of paces
ahead of me
hopeful
it would seem
that their display
of such bravery
is noticed and
perhaps rewarded
i couldn't help
but name them
and each time
they appear
talk to them
asking how
their day is going
while leaving
a handful
of dog kibble
as i walk on
to thank them
for their visit
in the hope
that their courage
my kindliness
time and persistence
might bring us
closer still
Jun 17, 2025
Jun 17, 2025 at 11:58 AM UTC
experiencing overwhelming gratitude
for so many aspects in my life
the sun rising again to shine upon my face
the feeling of warmth and total encompassment
that one has standing in the morning sun
in a quiet meadow –
three big dogs bound into the living room
slobber flying and loudly panting
flopping, rolling, kicking their legs
I laugh at the spectacle
giving them all a vigorous rub down –
from out behind the overgrown spider plant
the little black and white Waffle cat
stretches his long leg into view
rubbing against the edge of the couch
arching his back to brush it
against the chin of my old lab
before coming up and offering me a small ‘meow’ –
the pack follows me to the back porch
grabbing a handful of fishy kibble
I toss the lot into my hand-dug pond
5 to 8 inch six year old goldfish splash
and gulp down the bounty
tall bamboo shoots sway gently in the backdrop
creating both shade
and an exotic feel to my little oasis –
the Kia starts right up
Frank Zappa announces the variety of ways
in which a Jewish Princess is a good catch
and I smile
knowing today will be a good day….
even if Ice Cube did have to pull out an A-K –
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 10:16 AM UTC