"marinara" poems
*she dragged me out of the house
knowing i was feeling down
not allowing me to wallow
in my self pity,
she dressed me,
painted my face
fashioned my hair,
that’s my girl friend
at Juliana’s,
small family owned Italian restaurant,
a gem of a find, she said,
Lorenzo, greeted her with familiarity
(she leaves a memorable impression)
she introduced me as her bestie
with a twinkle in her eye
young (as all under 30 people are to me)
handsome, dark thick curly haired,
with dancing eyes,
a serving towel over his left arm
nodded with a genuine smile
i smiled back despite my mood
wine was swirled, smelled,
sampled and selected
a captivating performance,
executed expertly
she watched me
watching him
describe the specials
with a melodic Italian accent
transforming my mood
garlic knots wafting with his stride,
placed on the table
with a small bowl of marinara sauce
still hovering
in his long lean fingers
it slipped,
splattering red stain
on the pristine white cloth
without skipping a beat
his eyes poured into mine
words emerged
“forgive me, your beauty made me nervous”*
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 8:34 AM UTC
Marinara is my favourite kind of pizza.
I mean, I can’t really have any others...
Yes, I am one of those ‘annoying vegans’
But I also don’t like the non-dairy cheeses.
I used to order the gluten-free version.
So, I guess I am even more annoying.
However, the dough was so dry and weird
I just could never enjoy it.
I’ve tolerated it though for maybe 4 times.
But seriously, it was quite nasty.
So, please, just get the normal Marinara,
Unless you've got celiac disease.
In which case,
I'm sorry,
You gotta have to get the gross pizza.
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 6:30 AM UTC
Sweltering insurgencies of electric power chords
Tribal reverberations of skin-stretched drum boards
Rolling and filling; syncopating the noise
Of the tit-less toys
The dick-less boys
Enraptured in the music
The anthem
Of invidious phantoms
My eyes hurt inside and
I want to pull them out and
Scrape out the gunk and rust
that’s behind my self-indulgent perseverance
so I can cry
for the first time in years…
Wrapping my hands around his slender torso
Licking away the paint, the dripping ooze; more so
Than hastening my ****** and mordant urges
To bite what emerges
And my mouth purges
The obelisk from underneath
The iron-pierced jester
The voracious molester
My hand tightens as I grip
his throat tighter and
I want to squeeze until his eyes pop
from his sockets and
laugh until I puke against the walls,
watching the ****** fluids mix
like an execrable marinara sauce…
I turned thirty while still being sixteen
The vivid beauty of the world was only in dreams
But none of mine, none that I can recall
Many years have passed since I took the oral fall
Where no one saw
Intransigent need to live
For the snake in my veins hungered for more
So many had their way
until I was limp and sore.
Defamatory fingers of mire and strife
Probing and stretching
My insides
And devilishly comforting
With limpid ambrosia
That’s infected by bilious worms and maggots covered in icing
And fruit
Amatory gauntlets fastened and secured over
Handless limbs that retract under matriculated frictions
That fracture, crack, morph, distort
Emphasize, marginalize
Rationalize, desensitize
Acts of *********** evasion, moral drainage;
Pieces, bits, chunks, sections, portions, servings;
Arms, legs, eyes, tongues, fingers, toes,
Love, lust, infatuation
Adoration
Boys, girls, women, men,
Angels, demons, monsters, humans
Creators, gods, titans, divas
All extended and limited from the minds that worship
Sanctify, mesmerize, glorify, rectify
While humans eat more, love more, **** more
Than the angels, demons, monsters, and titans
We ponder and cherish
Nevermore, for me
Ever lore, for all
Crows surround
And chaos found.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 11:11 PM UTC
Guida & Me drove up to the ***** D
In my whip there was co-pilot Bryx and Captain Sleezy E
We rolled up to my yerp bro Brad D's
Next were greeted by Dino whos drinking a 40
Labatt Blue bonging and ponging like were competing for beer drinking glory
Then its onto asweome fries, saganaki, and telling funny stories
That night was crazy and a definite blast
Woke up the next day to see Dino's Dad's spot and gasp!
Walk into the kitchen to see Grandma Rontondo cooking homemade marinara
Smelling fresher than the lobby inside of a Panera
Next it's downstaris to the "Thunderdome," mindblow is all I can tell ya!
The food was amazing with Uncle D on the grill
Sammy the Bull said "Plastic Cups!" so that was the deal
Party was wild, popping bottles in other words unreal
Zoo was great, conductor swag was for real
Tigers beat the Twins, and that night it was freestyling, speeches, and Labatts on chill
Like the words of Willie Nelson the ***** D stays on my mind
I'll never forget that trip like my brain is a VCR and has the element of rewind!
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 7:00 PM UTC
It was October of 1966 and he was 9.
He walked proudly
through the scary Brooklyn streets,
searching for that one corner he saw-
on the ride home from PS 361,
back when he was 8.
An entire 3 blocks from home,
and he arrived at Mamma Rosa’s.
“World Famous Taste."
he would taste it soon enough.
(He didn’t know it, but Mamma’s was only famous
for the pizza grease layer over the checkered table cloths).
He mastered the menu with his 3rd grade reading skills.
The “marr-in-ay-ruh” sauce sounded tasty.
The steaming spaghetti came towards his window seat,
and Billboard’s Top 10 Singles played over his noodle noises.
“Mother’s Little Helper” by The Stones was new to him.
He twisted his pasta to the beat of the sitar.
The spicy guitar chords and zest of the marinara on his tongue. . .
The al dente string
swayed
from his stinging lips and to the beat of the bass.
He paid in three quarters he got from the landlord.
He swept the driveway every Sunday.
It was the best sauce he will have ever tasted.
“What a drag it is-
getting old.”
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 10:50 PM UTC
The first time you said it, it was raining.
I'd just taken my final, and had that sick, certain feeling that I'd failed it.
We were standing by your car and somewhere in the
midst of my rant about unfair grading practices,
and sexist Psych professors...
You. Just. Said it.
And all I could think was,
I wonder when grades will be posted?
The next time, we were sitting on my couch.
We had just finished dinner and were watching some old movie.
I remember Jimmy Stewart's voice distinctly,
So I know I picked the movie.
You were tickling me, and right in that moment when I lose all control
and give in to the giggles...
You said it again, mostly to yourself, but I heard.
And all I could think was,
I wonder if Jimmy Stewart was ticklish?
The last time, we were eating Italian.
I had gotten marinara sauce on my favorite blue dress,
and as I was trying to get it out, I spilled my water everywhere.
You just laughed that booming laugh of yours,
and then your eyes got dark, serious.
You took my hands in yours and watching my face closely,
you said it again.
And all I could think was,
I wonder if lemon juice will lift this stain?
The only time I said it, was on a Thursday.
Lunch had just ended and we were standing by the swings.
It was really windy so you pushed my hair out of my face.
That's when I almost said it,
but you started to speak.
I just smiled.
My smile must have hurt you,
because you looked away when you told me we wanted different things.
And I didn't say anything.
Instead, I watched you walk back towards the white brick building.
When you were almost there, you paused and started to turn back to me...
then stopped yourself and went inside.
And in that moment, when you were safely out of my reach,
I said it.
Because it was all I could feel since the day that we started.
No one ever heard me,
*but I love you, too.*
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 4:31 AM UTC
I sink into your sigh
like you sink into the couch
after emerging from your
sleep chambers. Marinara
sauce wafts the air while
the frat ghost hides in the sounds
of ferret wheels racing.
Battling tunes from different
handhelds spark conversations
lost in time flown over from
summer to now, for Now is
as good a time as any
as many times were but
inevitably saved for the
morning after—this one
in particular. Heads and
hearts lean together again
and distance tears them
away; for how long, none
can say. Before the year’s over—HA!
Sadly, I’ll wait til the last day.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 2:44 AM UTC
Hot dogs get chili
Burgers get mustard
Porterhouse gets steak sauce
At least the last I heard.
French fries don’t get vinegar
That’s totally absurd
French fries get ketchup
At least the last I heard.
Toilet paper rolls off the top
Toilet seats need to be up.
Tea is iced and in a glass
Coffee should be in a cup.
Tuna casserole is not for men,
We need meat and potatoes.
We only like marinara sauce
Instead of raw sliced tomatoes.
Salads are lettuce and dressing
Especially of the cheesy kind.
Eggplant is all plant and no egg
And tastes like watermelon rind.
Finger sandwiches are a waste
Especially those with watercress.
Cold borsht served in flat bowls
Is not much more than a mess.
Sushi is nothing else but
Some overdressed hunks of bait.
Pork bellies are pudgy bacon
And deserve a better fate.
Sweet breads are neither;
Sweet nor are they bread.
Steak tartar is just raw meat
And should be cooked instead.
Brunch is a truly silly word
One needs make up the mind.
Either have lunch or breakfast.
I don’t mean to be unkind.
We can be a confusing culture;
Combining things so badly.
Give me the basics, nothing more,
And I will go imbibe quite gladly.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 6:58 PM UTC
It is windy.
"This whole day has been turbulent,"
I think as we make our way down the beach.
It is a day so warm you can feel the heat
burning dumbly off of the sand itself.
And yet the day was cold.
The wind whips my bangs into eyes,
an obvious strike of envy at their brilliant blue
or a strike of malice at my incredulous conceit.
I whine on about my needs, my hopes, myself.
And yet you never seemed cold.
The wind does not whip your marinara hair
rather yet the frame of your face floats, glides,
drifting in the colorless jealousy of the wind.
The tide is rising and we are being cut off.
Urgency, urgency. The wind is jealous.
We walk and talk and sing and hold hands
and all seems well for a few moments.
And in those precious seconds where our worries are lost
the dear ravaged wind dies down, then back, then down again.
Urgency, urgency. The wind is dying.
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 12:16 AM UTC
So I know wha t we say
and i know how we say it
but why why why
THERES too many lines i think
to stay in one at once
so where do we go
when theres nowhere else to go
but here
or maybe there if thats what you into
but im defnitiely not into that dude
so you better stay the **** away
or i may go crazy and rip your marinara
into a new toilet cloth for the towels
and then you will have noooooo
idea what the **** i just said
Aug 27, 2010
Aug 27, 2010 at 12:02 AM UTC
It feels like someone took a knife to my back,
and tore open my skin in one, slow motion.
It feels like the person reached into the gaping hole,
and is still pulling on my muscles, my ribs, and my lungs.
The someone is pulling and twisting on my insides,
their big hands attacking me from behind.
The person stops, and my hopes rise.
Then the someone shoves the knife into my open wound.
Twisting and pulling again,
this time with the original offender.
My muscles are angel hair,
covered in my own marinara sauce.
Playing with its food,
the someone twists my strands,
she slices them,
slicing me again.
Soon the whole me
will be bits of me.
As long as she keeps twisting and pulling,
I’ll continue my way to my death bed.
My death bed,
covered in angel hair.
My death bed,
covered in my marinara sauce.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
Two men
Strung to the poles
Bedazzled in love
A girl
At the apex
Stringing them along
A classic triangle
Hopeless romance of sorts.
They meet on the decision day
Under the cherry blossoms
The girl having made her mind
said,
“No thanks I like my triangles with crust, marinara, and mozzarella spread.”
Jun 3, 2020
Jun 3, 2020 at 5:04 PM UTC
you stand on the corner of your just-gone home, dirt from below the torn-up asphalt making its way beneath your sunglasses, the distance between now and then something you can no longer stretch your knees and step over. your first love is boarded up across the street, succumbed finally to the burn of nineteen’s shallow pockets and standing in the way of a new apartment complex. you walk on, humming so you can’t hear the heavy step of all that’s taking your place. it’s a strain on your ventricles, loving and losing and owning and letting go, when you’re here again. knowing the porch’s soft wood at number 18 while the door is bolted and a stranger’s boots line your closet floor.
it’s not all lockouts and dire prognoses. your tomorrow professes to accommodate a higher wattage than the sconces in your old room, and your visits taste like love and memory and breakfast, and his bed is warmer than your own because he’s in it, and he welcomes you home like that’s what it still is. it feels like he’s not wrong to say so—sometimes, you still belong there. cold coffee in hand from the farthest corner where they know your order still. an opinion on which pizza joint has better marinara. a favorite bathroom. an indelible mark on your old library desk. some of it is yours.
but some of it isn’t. some never was, and some has slipped through your fingers. you hum a little louder as the months go by and the boarded windows give way to a brand-new storefront—one that never knew you at nineteen—so you can’t hear the heavy step of all that’s taking your place. but you keep coming back.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
Oh, the jar exults high
holding what we find to be dear
Oh, the marinaras keen zest, umami, and as I close my eyes
I hum the hunger tune.
Oh, but without the curved ridge and open space
the sauce would never grace my face
The jar! The jar,
the vehicle of delicious
who was passed through many hands
and crafted with hot sand.
Oh, tomato, garlic, and onion so sweet
and delivered neat, for me to eat.
Jul 30, 2019
Jul 30, 2019 at 11:03 AM UTC
i have no idea how many hours she toiled
in the community kitchen before i arrived,
but she’d made a *** of tofu stew, a bowl
of rice and beans, some spinach lasagna
soaked in marinara, hummus
and daiya cheese sandwiches.
diligent and dutiful,
without question,
without expectation.
an hour later, we stood in Lykes Gaslight Park,
doling out food to the houseless folks
who’d lined up for a vegan meal
when, out of the blue, a well-dressed
college student swaggered up to us,
his smile shimmering, and asked
what we were doing.
she brushed a loose strand
of hair behind one ear,
smearing a bit of sauce
across her cheek,
and said, “we are here to live
as if we are already free.”
they were sharing food too,
he explained, which was all well
and good. but we couldn’t help but notice
they’d never set foot here in the past,
that they only came out
when the season
passed into the holidays.
“you know,” he told us,
“you might not realize,
but the Lord Jesus Christ
is using you for the gospel.”
which seemed rather strange,
given that he’d be back
in his sanctuary before the year
was out, raising his hands
and praising his dead god
instead of standing beside us
every Tuesday and Saturday,
sharing.
but we remember the legacy
of the radical Nazarene,
the anarchic revolutionary
who fed five thousand—
a conquest of bread
with nothing but a few loaves
and some fish.
if you listen closely,
you can still hear him whispering,
“take what you need,
give what you can.”
we carry a new world
in our hearts and heads.
we don’t feed the hungry
to win a one-way trip to heaven.
so when you forget
about the poor you use as a prop,
we godless few will remain
in the streets until every belly’s full
and capitalism collapses—
risking arrest, fighting abuse,
addiction and empty stomachs.
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 7:25 AM UTC
I want to paint you a picture
of a spaghetti cloud
raining meatballs
and the marinara dripping
off starchy tendrils
like dew off a tilted blade
of summer's finest grass.
I want to paint you a picture
of a feline thunderbolt
with its' hair on end
and the screeching
echoing loudly
like the persistent mews
of an unfed kitten.
I want to paint you a picture
of a lost little girl
with her hairbow missing
and her eyes
opened quite wide
like an owl
who has gone blind.
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 10:24 AM UTC
If I don't ****** a doe it's eggplant parmesan for dinner.
Wait no no.... gotta use those nice zucchini and yellow summer squash too, add a lil provolone, with a homemade marinara, some asiago and a basil leaf to boot. Fresh garden Napoleons....but it would be so much better with a rosemary skewered venison filet....here deer. .here deer.
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 4:04 PM UTC
I now understand the non-crust people
The people who don't eat the pizza crust
You know those people?
The ones who don't eat the crust after they finish the pizza?
When the marinara
The mozzarella
And the accoutrement are gone
That last piece of bread
With nothing else on it
Nothing but crust
You know those people?
You probably grew up with those people
The non-crust people
And you ask
Why don't you want your crust?
My favorite part is the crust!
And they say
I just don't need it.
I just don't like the crust.
Why don't they want the crust?
What's so bad about just bread?
There's nothing wrong with the crust
I never thought there was anything wrong with the crust
I genuinely did love the crust.
But I've reached a point,
Where I've had too much crust
And not enough of what makes a pizza,
A pizza
Feb 24, 2023
Feb 24, 2023 at 12:08 AM UTC