"menus" poems
navigator’s balcony cocktail hour
rocket orbit ocean liner rising
clenched no teeth no guernica no bam bam bam
correspondent notary republic
address book dial figure 8
charred with a thousand jigsaw pieces
false as a beach chiaroscuro black
on black graveyard womb naked milk glass lit
footprint tourism by candlelight and flare
vaccination fatigue puke fingernail fish
moving a bandaged echo **** him **** her
familiar bell music **** them both **** them all
stretched shirtsleeves spanish toffee slashed tires
(failure as a painter he shaved his wife’s fur coat)
bust your ***** Barcelona red alert
knock-kneed broken squeezebox no hands
standing room only ladies first (please)
unbuttoned interrogation coffee rolls (stop)
marine’s vegetation (stop) early morning tea (stop)
armless menus (stop) pink cathedral fingers (stop)
and (begin again) move
we move
moving inside an eye this eye
that advances step
by step
10.3k
Hanging out new to the scene
So often wonder what that means
As I sit in front of the world's screen
Started in on ...Googling
I typed in a single word
Pressed enter for the Google search
Took me down the path absurd
Where all the lines were blurred
From there I ventured off the path
Wish I'd known there's no turning back
Marveled at the knowledge that I lack
Like how to whittle your own baseball bat
Just in case you're wondering
Midgets don't melt in the rain
Who doesn't think that that's insane
As I dive deeper into Googling
The art of bathing a Hindu rat
Skinning a two-headed Siamese cat
The taking of the perfect nap
Standing up while keeping your lap intact
How to delicately pierce a Rhino's ear
Dressing up then down a deer
50 different ways a man can cheer
While toasting his favorite Micro beer
Abstract art using cotton *****
How to paint between the lines on paisley walls
Teaching Yankees how the South says ya'll
Lost episodes of the show called Lost
Food served upon the world's menus
Even specialties from Timbuktu
Why the sea is green and the sky is blue
As my googling madness continues
More artwork this time with the jam of toes
How to pick your friends but never your friend's nose
Cleaning of the house without a stitch of clothes
The whole time being careful with the vacuum hose
80's Hairbands I used to like
That now know what bald feels like
Making a homemade Hindenburg kite
One that lands this time
How to handle midlife like a man
Taking a survey of what you could have been
Raising Spider Monkey's in the comfort of your den
As I keep on Googling
I now find myself Googling out in front
As I'm Googling from behind
Googling up as I'm Googling down
To the left and to the right
I've learned how to gargle Google
That's a well known Google fact
And if you don't believe me
You can even Google that
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 2:33 PM UTC
dissuaded seamstresses seamlessly string
together thoughts throwing out convention
and convection ovens hold the bones of history
hot air blows through them and out
the mouths of bloated politicians red faced
with misplaced values and encouraging
a broken caste systems’ continuation
as classism hides beneath value menus
radically altering the fabric of not only society
but also the genetic code in which we all stem
wilted flower petals stick to flattened tires
wired children snorting Ritalin pick locks
placed by scared parents
frightened by Fox news and Vioxx side effects
stashed cash smashed in mattresses
waits for the next prescription election
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
At a Parisean restaurant
In a quarter undisclosed
Unaware of everything
The diners sat exposed
As Clara and the Prince sat down
And prepared to eat their meal
Backstage the musician equipped himself
The theft who had yet to steal
As menus and music case opened
The scene was set for all
And as Rigo Jancsi took the stage
The crowd fell quiet, enthralled
The gyspy was a showman
His weapon a violin
A tune danced out across the room
As the strings began to sing
Playing notes of tales untold
His melody charmed her soul
The music pulled her heart to his
Over her husband's buttered roll
Captivated, entranced and mesmerised
Seduced by another life
And when the gypsy left that night
He took the Prince's wife
They ran away and married
A scandalous affair
Society was most surprised
But our story does not end there...
Hungarian tales tell of the man
Whose music stole a heart
Remembered in a chocolate cake
And puppets, songs and art
One hundred long years later
The guitar boy from the band
Strummed his notes and stole the girl
Heartstrings were played by hand
Two stories a century apart
What makes these stories the same?
Because the boy's band of musicians
Used the Hungarian gypsy's name
Dec 9, 2009
Dec 9, 2009 at 6:23 AM UTC
Wisconsin, fine--
We sit on state lines.
Across the street, Rodeo Drive.
Move a little bit
and East L.A. makes you feel alive.
Go to the diner
where the mermaids wear aprons
and hold out menus like personal stock.
Where the surfer-rama drama in the diner deep
allows them to let go of those they keep.
And you and me and those we love,
keep us finite, because why not.
I could tell you how to eat your waffles
if you will be the spoon that stirs my coffee.
Listen to me,
"Rachel, there's no one, right now,
that I'd rather sit and eat breakfast with than you.
And if it doesn't work out,
and we choke on our meals, that's fine.
I just want to try when I'm with you."
We exchange glances
and I'm sure, then,
that I adore the aplomb,
for your smile leads myself
into believing and being more.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 1:27 PM UTC
If you drive down route 235,
the lonely parallel line of route 5,
running through St. Mary's County, Maryland,
between the intersection of Old Three Notch road
and St. Andrew's Church road,
and the liquor store at the corner of Mattapany--
you must do so with a fat wallet,
and a growling stomach,
who barks at the flashing signs
of the sparkling chain restaurants--
wafting their familiar scents out the windows
and onto the busy street.
Utterly beleaguered every which way by these olfactory factories,
your mouth waters and your wallet lightens
as the tantalizing sensations
permeate your vehicle.
So you cave;
another lost soul vacates the street at Restaurant Alley,
under the prowling searchlights
and the intoxicating smells lingering like a dense fog;
You linger in your purgatory with glee.
You exit satisfied, patting your abdominous belly
and lifting your smiling face to the sky
in thanks to the gluttonous gods
who rain down these chain restaurants
from the heavens.
A satisfied sigh seeps out of loose lips,
barely hanging on to your fleshy face,
so ruddy and fat.
You act like your stop was something novel,
like it wasn't routine to acquiesce to these temptations;
you return to your car to continue your roamings
down restaurant alley.
Sadly, a full stomach won't stifle a querying nose,
and your senses are soon at it again;
just as the waiters and waitresses,
cooks and busboys--
are back at the window, leaning outside
with their clamorings and bustlings and cookings--
You pretend to entertain willpower as your copilot,
but even if that were so,
your senses would still be at the wheel,
with your mind bound and gagged in the trunk.
Restaurant Alley goes on for miles and miles and miles,
seemingly endless in the permeating fog of
burgers and pancakes and pasta and chicken and fries and burgers and soda and ice cream and beer and pasta and wine and America and pancakes and steak and appetizers and desserts and entrees and specials and kids menus and burgers and chicken and pasta and fries and burgers and ice cream and salad and burgers and soda and eat and eat and eat and eat and eat!
There's nothing to eat;
there's nothing to do but eat in Restaurant Alley,
on route 235 in St. Mary's County, Maryland.
So fasten your seat belt,
and loosen your waist belt,
and take a doomed trip down the endless roadway--
where you are dragged, shackled to food chains
that haul you from the perdition that is the lobby's waiting room
to be seated with loved ones at the mercy seat of Ambrosia.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
Saturated meat
floating in a sea of melancholy
spite and olive oil.
Arrogance
the elegance of autocracy
'Take the plate away'.
Discrete pleas
beneath a blasphemous sky
defeated by the heat.
Happiness postponed
by procrastination
and moments of hostility.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 5:52 AM UTC
Everyday I have lunch
With a pink hippopotamus
The menus always the same
Tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches
Oh, and Diet Cherry Coke
Cause he likes the way it tickles his throat
His friends sometimes stop by
To join the both of us
Hippopotami
If you're talking more than one of us
Or Hippo for short
If you're not into funny sounding words
Sometimes after lunch
Me and my friend the pink Hippopotamus
Like to take a drive
To the beach in his Minibus
He loves to catch the rays
Plus hang ten on a few waves
If you ever care for lunch
Feel free to join me and my Hippopotamus
But only if you like
Tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches
Because it's all that he will eat
Which is fine by me
Makes for easy cooking and cleaning
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 8:01 AM UTC
I’ve got Nike shoe-boxes filled
with newspaper confetti basketball highlights,
a Lucky Charms cereal prize, a hair clip
from the Homecoming dance, picture after picture
of little month-long memories. I’ve got a dozen
temporary candy box boyfriends
who faded just as quickly as they sparked. I’ll reopen
them occasionally, remind myself why my middle school mind
found it so important to save stale Valentine’s Day lollipops
and balance that with the tender, childish idea
that baby love is the realest love and maybe one day
all those text message breakups would come back to me.
I sort
through each dent my heart has suffered that I stowed away
in compartments, but you,
who’ve seen me through the longest,
have no place under my bed. I’ve got nothing
visible to hold of you because truth be told
you’re only my friend if the lights are out and the door is shut.
I have no pop song sweatshirt that still smells like you,
no cliché letters I’ve soaked with tears, no movie tickets,
no dinner matches or menus or pictures that I could cut
if I hated you enough.
I’d have to collect your sweat in a vile and brew it
into a perfume just so the smell could give me something
disgusting enough to feel when I remember you.
If only I could capture my nightmares, remake the images,
mold your body out of actual clay and light you up
without having to kiss your pelvis. We’ve made a mess of this.
You’re just a flame I forgot to blow out.
You're just a name I left hanging on my mouth.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC
people's eyes are like constellations, wherever you go
they will be there during sunlight and sundown,
picking out flaws like they pick out food on menus
finding the crack in the liberty bell, finding Venus de
Milo’s lack of arms, like flowers, we wilt without
rain, and we are so ashamed of being imperfect,
but why do we run from the rain? can we not accept
reality and believe fantasy is a much more powerful
sense of comfort than believe in the bizarre judgement
the earth has provided for us, the most grandeur
hearts are the heavily scarred and bruised, because
what are we without our flaws? we aren't boring.
- kra
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 1:22 AM UTC
we met in Mexico,
slept rough in the back;
the seats folded down levelled out
and tacked down with two springs
we went by cities
not knowing their names;
stopped at payphone kiosks
shamed our pasts with left messages on answering machines
we stopped at toll booths,
paid for more road to play on,
to drive over smooth,
to cross another border before the noon
we deciphered restaurant menus,
ate with fingers crossed and hoped
the chicken was just that,
left a tip lost in another used ash tray
we wore sun cream
to screen us against the rays
and the glare reflecting
off the mineral water, natural bays
we walked up to bars
asked for drinks in cold bottles,
sipped and supped until kisses rolled out,
left holding hands like mannequin models
we kept the trip a secret,
kept it secure between you and me
and the folds in the bed sheets,
we only exist in hotel cheap suites.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
The glasses in this restaurant
are spotted with finger-oil
and when held up to the sun,
you can see a misty cloud trapped within them,
just barely holding back the intoxicating light.
The papers in this restaurant- a collection of unpaid bills and torn menus, are painted with the sweat of the workers, wilted by the heat, and wait to be thrown to the fire.
When held up to the sun,
you can see each splatter of grease and each drizzle of spit together as Picasso's inspiration,
unyielding to the light, whispering yes to each piercing ray.
The people in this restaurant
are spotted with needle-ink
and when held up to the sun,
you can almost see a nest of organs through their papery skin,
which invite the light to seep, seep in.
But the glasses, and the papers, and the people stay, planted on the table, or the swivel chairs, or the rotten floor. The light waits outside.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 9:39 AM UTC
I used to carry two buckets
It was easy, each swing weightless
I filled them with thoughts of the day and put them on the shelf at night
People began to fill them with their favorite things
At first I liked the kick knacks
Bibles, shards of scrapping paper, handicap stickers, elephants and stars, kids menus, empty party bottles, movie reels and a wadded up half finished confession on the back of a napkin.
The weight began to grow
I enjoyed it, the build of muscle, the struggle of hard work. I could feel the sweat on the sides of my forehead and I was proud. These buckets were a sign of success
they were my trophies
and I polished them every night
the sweat began to pour
into my buckets
I hated the sloppy stains left behind, legs bored with the gain
no longer willing to put in the time
my buckets. my little spits of treasure
I wanted to tip them over the bridge like a butcher chucks his slimed waste into the dump
I let things go
Into the river. let the buckets settle into the slush at the bottom of a cool drink.
If I want to hold something, I'll use my hands
and if over my palm all things drop- I'll know I'm only human
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
advertising has changed so much
in capitalism,
it's a form of existentialism,
while the french philosophers
abstracted in coffee shops
english existentialism took to
constantly advertising people,
they're not cheese grins and tampons
and toilet product quickies...
they're literally full time adverts,
they do that thing called blogging in video...
it's a strange existentialism,
it's a plagiarism of c.c.t.v.,
the new medium of advertising requires
constant consumer surveillance with those clowns
getting gifts from companies, talking about
getting them and pushing them on...
advertisement literally became a movie picture
akin to Hollywood... the internet age
gave us advertisement actors who
advertise with so much existential angst they
have to encompass each and every day
as wroth advertising - and confuse people
with mundane issues akin to dentistry
and take-away menus that they're not doing...
what they're actually doing;
*a friend in need is a friend indeed,
a friend with **** is better,
a friend with ******* and all the rest
a friend who's dressed in leather...*
(placebo's pure morning).
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 7:54 PM UTC
There was tension between the families from the start
My best friend's wedding was certainly one for the record books
I tried to bring sensible mediation to the dance floor
As his Grandpa Helmar raised his walking cane and struck the Brides Father in the neck
Each of the families allegiance spurned combative retribution and all Hell broke loose
I took one for the team with a sac of Jordan Almonds to the right eye
Then slipped on the wedding gift of excrement left by the ring bearer, the family poodle
I came to consciousness wet with champagne thrown in my face, I thanked my wife for caring.
Aunt Sarrah, in her drunken zeal, thought it wise to toss all her cookies in the Reverend's face
The Bride's mother slapped an unsuspecting cousin with her overly expensive oversized hat
And the Groom's sister's dress was ripped to shreds by the Bride's teenage niece
Yes. the same dress that my wife said was hideous and did nothing for her.
The two parties had not much to say to each other in the waiting room of the ER
bandages and gauze were passed around like Hors d'oeuvres, but not the Bayer Aspirin
We all watched in shameful disgust, the videographer's collection of memories
The next day as the Bride and Groom opened their gifts
And I, sporting a keen black patch, a pirate only his wife could love...
Reminded my dear friend of the possible outcome of having two reception menus
One honoring him and his family and one honoring his Bride and her family
Highlighted by Königsberger Klopse, and respectively, Gefilte Fish with carrots
Their love endures!
-----ChawzzyScript
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 11:50 PM UTC
~
There she was chasing a rabbit
with 1 am coffeecakes and weak tea
She didn’t notice I was watching
from the branches of an olive tree
A lone smile hidden amongst
swirling smoke rings in a foreign accent
To the gazebo she ran
with its straw grass tables
and pleated cushions in hibiscus
print fabric no one would sit on
My eyes followed her as she
darted around manicured boxwoods
and cherub statues spitting water
onto sleeping lily pads
She came upon a dandelion
and asked politely, “Pardon me,
but have you seen a…”
The **** interrupted,
“Didn’t, don’t do drama dreams
dancing deliriously down
donut distracted ditches”
“That’s dumb” she replied
with a giggle and a snort
This must be her fun, I think,
trying to catch a white ball of fur,
big, then small,
then smaller still like a
thimble seeking a thread,
when now she is stopped
in her ziggy zagging tracks
by a June bug singing,
“I see, I see, in front of me
Dessert, dessert, set out for free
A chocolate pie, a chocolate pie
in menus written on the sky”
Perplexed she climbed upon its back,
red leather shoulder pads
with black dots changing shapes,
ducking winged arches that
covered the vestibule they
soared through when a sharp turn
pitched her to the opposite side…
Landing with a thud,
her new dress now soiled
between the wrinkles in time
that had ticked away
on a clock faced sun named Ray
She cried carrot tears,
orange sherbet streams
on peach tone cheeks,
marmalade miseries
and mango miscues
piddling on her patent leather shoes,
ready to give up
When it appeared hopping happily,
jumping into her lap
and licking her face
She caressed its fur, removing
sticker burs and scratching
just the right spot, as its right rear leg
thumped with joy
Then lifting the bundled bunny
to her face, she kissed it tenderly
with wild cherry gloss lips,
or should I say…kissed me
for you see, all along, it was me
And you thought I was nothing more than a pretty smile…..
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 1:11 PM UTC
I don't give two ***** about how I look.
Noticeably.
Face is like a spring bloom,
Except all the blooms are reddish, bursting, bleeding buds.
My head is everywhere rounded:
Pictures accentuate the impeccable sphere.
So what?
But I tell you,
When waiters give me kiddie menus without a second thought,
They better not ******* forget the crayons.
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 3:10 AM UTC
if i keep the receipts i can pretend
that we’re still going out to lunch together,
that your phantom arm is around me at night,
that you’re still here.
i can pretend that you’re not in new york,
and me, i’m not here.
i hoard the receipts and the tickets and
the programs and the take out menus.
i sleep with your sweatshirt under my body
and i, i remember each breath we took in unison.
i imagine that you’re not away
because we are both universal, anyway.
i never cried at the bus stop,
or the train station.
instead i hoarded the tears until i was so full
of water that i broke.
because we can pretend that this is easy
and worth it, it will be,
but at the end of the night
i’m still clutching papers and cloth
with all of my might.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 5:23 PM UTC
As I get inside the restaurant
With my one and only
Looking stunning
In our matching outfit
Heading straight
To sit at an organised lovely
Table for two embellished with roses.
we are ready to dine together!
in love and peace.
Waiter! As I raise my hand
Can we have our menus?
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 5:11 AM UTC
You said this summer,
hold me tight,
when hanging lights―
go out.
I will heal your moon,
your cryptobiosis
of seeds―
at dawn, when you wake up
before the stars leave.
It would not be a day of mourning.
The quinces, japonica
irises were deeply disturbed.
Under the tongue
lies the religion of masses.
The menus are same, only
the taste was different.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 8:06 AM UTC
I wear a suit and tie all day
slave to a clock
come home tired and irritable
while the lion just does whatever it wants
and has the entire Serengeti to roam
picking off Wildebeests until it is satisfied
but it can't use a computer
or a microwave
and it doesn't have an air conditioner
but then all these things
are in my little cage
I'm not sure who has the better life
But I bet the lion would think
cheeseburgers and french fries
on value menus wherever we roam
are pretty awesome
I'm sure we would be good friends
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
Because if you study those
Decrepit maps curled up in the
corners of antique stores and
the menus of sleepy little diners
Where retired navy men gather to drink coffee
Murky as the water they worked on
For their entire uncertain lives
You would be studying
what used to be Slaughter County
Where it remains tranquilized
By narcotic gray skies
Next to islands that awkwardly
break off from the mainland
Creating channels
Where anxiety is drained
Into the population of
the suicidal indigenous
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 5:24 AM UTC
I tell everyone that
you broke my heart.
But if I press my fingers hard
against my chest,
a little to the left of the bone in the center
that’s curved to fit the shape of the right side of your temple,
I can feel the steady
thump, thump, thump
of it,
still alive,
still in one piece,
still beating. I think
my heart is stronger than my body
most days,
when I can’t force myself out of bed
because my pillow still smells
like your shampoo and
my heart still beats:
thump, thump, thump.
When my knees give out
because I find your
“Essentials of Strength Training and Conditioning”
textbook right where I told you it would be,
my heart still beats:
thump, thump, thump.
When I stand in front of the fridge,
motionless,
staring at the notes you’ve written
in the margins of the takeout menus,
my heart still beats:
thump, thump, thump.
When I lay down on the floor and
stare at the Casio keyboard under the couch
where you left it,
my heart still beats:
thump, thump, thump.
When my fingers,
still melded to the shape
of your hand,
can’t grasp the doorknob
or my next drink
or the telephone to call you,
my heart still beats:
thump, thump, thump.
I tell everyone that
you broke my heart
but I think
the only thing you left whole
was my heart.
The rest of me is thrown around the room
in broken bits and pieces,
memories littered like body parts
across the hall
and the floor of a room I once called ‘ours,’
but my heart still beats:
thump, thump, thump.
My heart still beats
like eerie jungle drums in the dark,
like a clock and I have a hangover,
like a leaky faucet and a copper basin:
thump, tick, drip.
My heart still beats.
(You didn’t break all of me yet.)
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 11:37 PM UTC