"microwaved" poems
sometimes she daydreams about life the way i do about death. it's ironic, i know: black and white aren't meant to be grey and the rumbling hum of expletives digging into mauve lips pass through like desaturated light to translucent statures. it makes everything seem sweeter than it looks. she thinks the ache feels lukewarm, just like those half-hearted smiles she gives out like presents on a holiday, and she may be right. pain is not cold, it covers your entire heart with microwaved fingers, leaving burn marks that leave chars and ashes. snaps the purple heartstrings and clumsily tries to mend it.
(i love you because you're corporeal, she murmurs, you keep me sane)
she's spider-webbed, sung gossamer and silk while her bar lines drip with ink. and she seems moonstruck—because of me she says and blooms throughout my epiphanies. fancies herself a ghost, a wisp, something ethereal that lingers on my lips like a kiss. and she lingers, oh she does. toppling from the skies and collapsing into my rib-cage, she stays, blushing rose-like and thriving. velvet and constellations of blood clots patter against her skin. it blooms like she blooms, a paint splattered canvas meant for all to see.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 2:50 AM UTC
"Move" they say
and put martingale on with a neigh
Thai pony in Chiang Mai
A green patch of grass
was what your heart desires
would yourself like a chew of truss?
In the forest with no name
on hard concrete without an aim
swimming with the tuk-tuk wave
"Where am I?"
you ask with side-patched eye
"My knees are soft like a microwaved pie"
But all you ever get
is a whip on the back
from the oddity with some leather strap
"Why are you so hesitant
while all the other stallions are competent
don't you know the creatures in the carriage are very important?"
"How important are the vultures in the world I don't know
but I know that I won't say no
if you borrow a thread of my hair for a violin bow
and play their funeral march with it to and fro"
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 11:39 AM UTC
He smelt like smoke
as he leaned away from me,
texting himself with my phone.
We left the campfire outside,
in our shoes by the door
our socks overlapped in a tangle of limbs.
In that leftover guest room,
on the bottom bunk of the microwaved bed,
I remembered why I thought I knew what love was.
He was tired and needed a nap,
I was restless and cold.
Trapped inside because of violent temperate rainstorms.
This boy owed me stubbed toes,
thorn ****** through my jeans,
nicknames and rubber soles.
This was the boy who had always smelt of smoke,
who knocked over dead trees for me,
who lied about being able to rock climb.
This was the boy who went swimming in the ocean
before summer had properly began
when it was still much too chilly.
I taught him a new card game,
he beat me at badminton.
We played capture the flag and threw pinecones.
We sold cookies on the side of the road,
ate dusty blackberries,
traded innuendos and bad jokes.
This was sea-urchin boy,
slug boy,
the boy with the bird's nest hair.
This boy grew taller,
dropped his voice like a used bus pass,
looked past the top of my head.
He laughed when i stepped in a mud puddle,
dared me to walk in bare feet.
This boy suddenly went mountain biking.
I talked extra loud, in hopes that he would overhear me,
offered him rootbeer straight from the can.
Ate pretzels and learned to read his mind.
We shared our childhoods like penny candies,
switching all the peach ones for strawberry.
we agreed these are the best years of our lives.
He layed beside me, underneath as many covers as we could find,
taking up too much space and he knew it.
my cartoon boy.
My hand-drawn boy,
With smoke coming out of his ears
moved away.
We didn't talk again
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
Half of a stale croissant,
A cupcake with no icing,
Partially consumed slice of cold pizza,
A special computer file,
Called old and cold,
Some files nothing more
Than titles on a snowy screen.
A smorgasbord of delicacies,
A mason jar with a lidded hole
To keep the prisoners alive but in,
The insides of my refrigerator brain.
Where the partial poem pastries reside.
Some jots and dashes get microwaved,
Served up instantly, hot n' piping,
Read me read me now for I am
Ready to be served.
Ah, the others, miserable creatures in a
Special Victims Unit,
In a ward where the doctor has no more
Release forms to sign,
Dream on, awaiting a super nova,
A comet tail, a torn screen window corner,
To engineer an escape.
Kitty, my kitty,
Give me your tired, poor scraps of prose
Yearning to be free,
I have a place for them, where
They will reside unhappy, but free,
In good company,
Waiting for the day they get to see the
Statue of Liberty.
Until that day, when,
Your happy love poems yearning to be whole,
Say, "now I have the ending,"
To let them breathe...
Now I have the closure,
That is the opening,
I will guard them closely,
As if they were fragments of mine own
Blood, sweat and tears.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 6:17 AM UTC
i'm searching for something that i can't reach
she sleeps irregularly. she cries and breathes all at the same time
but does not make a sound. her face falls apart every morning when
she realizes she is still alive. the anger coursing through the blood
vessels in her body is not caused by anything, it comes rapidly and
mockingly. she counts to ten and holds the air inside her lungs and
hopes to any being listening that her nose stops working so that the
air inside her can expand and then eventually diminsh so that she
can tear herself apart all over again. she eats unhealthy. stuffing salty
fries and refrigerated microwaved chicken down her throat and forcing
the urge to throw it all out down to her skeleton so that the food
remains in her body, making bumps in her stomach and sticking
out of her ribs like unwanted monsters. she likes being ugly. she likes
that no one ever notices her and when they do they don't say a
word she likes that her own body betrays her and punishes her eyes
when she wakes up in the morning and realizes she is still alive.
she is a phantom. she is a ghost. she is a whisper. knowing her will not
be an adventure it will be a maze filled with poisoned leaves and razor
sharp rocks. her smothering brown eyes will captivate you and
undo every single knot in your body and make you feel like gravity
does not exist. but she will not be pretty. she will never be beautiful.
touching her will be like trying to collect shards of glass off of the floor
from a bottle of wine that you accidentally dropped. she will not
love you. she will not love herself. she will only convince you that she is
happy being a mess, a disaster and you will have no
choice but to believe her because your love is short lived and
only exists when she feels worthless and lonely enough to want
your company. you know this. she knows this. neither of you will
say it. the truth is an ancient phonebook neither of you have
ever heard of. she is not a hurricane, there is no eye in her
(h.l.)
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 7:24 PM UTC
today i woke up and played animal crossing. i ate ice cream and i binged. i microwaved salt and water, it didn't do anything and i felt stupid calling it a binge. small binges count, shallow cuts count too. it's about how you feel while stuffing your face with three cereal bars at the speed of light or storing sharp objects as a panic button.
I spent the day self-loathing and wishing I had a prettier disorder. one that doesn’t get you called a ***** when you just need someone to tell you what is real and what is not, one that doesn't make crawling out of your bed an impossible challenge. I remember how forgiving people were when everyone suspected I had adhd. I would hurt myself whenever i couldn't focus and they thought that was worth a hug, mania is not even worth a kind word. I remember my ex handing me ritalin, I remember not taking it because I was paranoid about being poisoned. there was “you can do it” written on the box with a smiley face. he had the same grin as he f!cked me and spat on me minutes away. I scratched his back as bad as I could so the other girl would notice and ask him if he was treating me right. he thought it was arousing. it was a cry for help.
now I sit on the edge of the bed I spent the past few days in. it got me missing my old bedroom, the cocoon i lived inside for eight years. i sit here alone and unlovable by the standards of controlling neurotypicals, i still can't focus for the life of me and I've never felt so close yet so far from my dreams.
if i'll have to take a step back from my ambitions once again, then so be it.
my only hope is that death feels like going grocery shopping and exiting the store knowing that you checked all of the boxes of your list, I hope my grandma felt safe as she passed.
if heaven is real I hope my hym3n grows back to convince myself I was never in danger. I hope I can be something other than life's mixed, blonde, green-eyed f!ck doll.
Sep 19, 2024
Sep 19, 2024 at 8:35 AM UTC
It was never love,
lust causes illusions.
Pulls your heart deep into the sunken place, till all that you're in is a state of confusion.
Building on nothing real,
sacrificing how you feel for the sake of the happiness of someone else, with no reciprocity.
As if they're ashamed of the real you, they try molding you into who they want you to be, just so others can be pleased.
The westernized mind, microwaved and fried, indoctrinated till its living the "American dream," based off of lies.
Always asking "What do you do?" so they know what level of respect to show,
never concerned with your soul, and how bright it must glow.
We need money to survive in this three dimensional life, always taught the ups and downs, left and rights, but never touch on the importance of what's inside.
Always worried about how we look in other people's eyes,
we hold onto nothing except a false reality and relationships built on lies.
But I refuse to pretend to act like this is what life should look and feel like, so I reclaim my heart, climb out of the sunken place and live life with both eyes open wide.
Guarding the heart and protecting my mind.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 3:40 PM UTC
Cinnamon-Raisin French Toast.
Maple syrple, microwaved hot.
Secret ingredient,
Secret no more!
A splash of vanilla in the batter.
We chat about this n' that.
About the play,
She didn't love it.
About the daughter-in-law's cleaning skills,
A good housekeeping award, she ain't gonna win.
Her grandma from Austria,
Seeing ugly would call it
Unlovely.
I am thinking,
Your genetic humanity, betrayed.
What a great poem that would make....
She is thinking, boy,
You needs haircut bad.
But she don't nag,
As my hair has drifted to one side,
Instead she just calls me
Gumby....
There is always a way.
There is always a way,
To say it softer,
Say it easy on the ears,
When you can't say nothing.
It takes practice.
It takes into account,
Nobody at this here breakfast table is
Perfect exceptin' for the
Cinnamon-Raisin French Toast,
Which has left the table.
It takes a splash of vanilla in your
humanity,
To say it right,
When sometimes, what needs saying is the
Unlovely.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 10:27 AM UTC
Skinny like a Starbucks drink with zero sugar, zero guilt and full of almond-milk joy.
Skinny like a microwaved meal, perfectly portioned and easy to count.
Skinny like two diet cokes and a cigarette for lunch.
Skinny like Adderall, a high dose for higher grades.
Skinny like late nights and random *** with strangers.
Skinny like virginity.
Skinny like binge-purge-repeat.
Skinny like perfection, like mints and sadness and tight little swimsuits.
Skinny like a disorder.
Skinny like control out of control.
Skinny like a diagnosis.
Skinny like suffering.
Skinny like her.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 8:24 PM UTC
This is
Almost all.
Cereal.
12 bites chocolate koala crispies
Chris along with some horizon
fat-free organic milk
but again 12 bytes.
Short stack flapjacks
Safeway maple syrup drenching it.
Patrick's IRA send it
One hot fudge sundae
from McDonald's
one half bite of hot fudge.
Six bytes of salsa recipe.
Four microwaved Chinese potstickers
Some HighC
orange lovers
I also ate Mark's soup
25 Cheetos
Xcessive?
I also ate some
of my accent.
One can Wolfgang Puck
used as a base
added some roasted
breast chopped
roughly 2 wings
scanner on onion
red rock refrigerator
did an onion
rings tile cut.
Think I know I'm
sorry sweetie
they are kind.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC
Print screen my whole being,
in the cadence of seasons changed.
Generation X's sweet heartbreak.
Strangers share the pain.
We walk the walk online,
nowadays,
in these times that are a changed.
Changing no more - subtly maybe.
The footfall of history stored,
in Google baby,
& terrabytes & ram.
A virus called.
And the rhyming stalled,
until;
Man made museums in nothing, but,
soldiered components,
smaller than the eye can see.
Nano moments,
lost in scrolled screens,
likes and comments,
compassion shared
around,
the world,
until forgotten;
fads
fade
away,
into familiarities.
Then we logged out of life,
and left reality behind smokescreens,
of PCs
HD ready, on blue days -
Blue Rays,
now smaller.
microsized.
Our brain waves microwaved.
Attention spans,
in the palm of our mouse shaped hands.
Say goodbye to the old days,
guilty as charged,
in
the strife of low battery life;
running out of charge.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 8:06 AM UTC
Honey.
12 bites chocolate koala crispies
Chris along with some horizon
fat-free organic milk
but again 12 bytes.
Short stack flapjacks
Safeway maple syrup drenching it.
Patrick's IRA send it
1 hot fudge sundae
from McDonald's.
1/2 bite of hot fudge
4 bites soft serve.
6 bytes of salsa recipe.
4 microwaved Chinese
potstickers some
HighC orange lovers
I create Mark's suit.
1 can Wolfgang Puck
used as a base
added some chicken
******* roasted
chopped roughly
Spoon cut.
2 wings
25 Cheetos
Xcessive?
I also ate
my accent.
Scan him some onion
red rock ringed
Reiterate Beings
tile cut.
Think I know I'm
sorry sweetie
they are kind
Of sinking.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
today i have a stomach ache for some reason.
i think something must be rotten
in there.
i don't know if this malaise comes from
the microwaved chicken wrap
i had for breakfast, or
from the unexpected death of all the butterflies
that used to live inside.
but
if the second one is true,
the second one was you.
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 4:30 PM UTC
If you’ve only ever smelled fir trees covered with freshly fallen snow-
then you haven’t smelled it.
It’s an acquired smell, for sure.
It comes just in between the whiffs of
mashed potatoes
mashed carrots
mashed peas
mashed turkey
hell, mashed ginger-ale for all I know. . .
Somewhere amongst that microwaved menagerie, masked with the smell of eau de toilette,
it lives, and smells sweeter the longer brown sugar bubbles on top of caramelizing yams.
If you can’t smell it, maybe you can find it.
Not many can, or do.
It hides in plain sight, though.
A lost and found box with accumulated cobwebs - everything still unclaimed.
A flyer for free puppies that no one ever took because they were “too much responsibility.”
Maybe there aren’t enough seekers in this game of empty rooms and blank guest books.
But keep looking, until bingo prize hand-me-downs after school plays look like Oscars.
You won’t see it until it makes you believe that plastic Mardis Gras beads are Tiffany-blue boxes.
It’s not so much in the nose, or the eyes as it is in the endurance.
Endure the voiceless Glenn Miller until his brass bellows become her voice -
whispering “I love you” to the effortless rhythm of “Moonlight Serenade.”
And imagine her,
swapping her orthopedics for black heels,
elegantly taking Pop’s hand as he helps her up from her wheelchair,
to join him for just one more dance.
Watch as they become the sepia-colored couple in every anniversary photo.
That black dress. Those fake pearls.
The crescendo of the band.
It’s hard to miss when it’s screaming at you.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
I read a story the other day.
I read the headline.
It said: There is no god and we are his prophets.
We drive slowly on Saturdays.
At night in our home there are noises,
the dull thumps of ghosts.
We used to comment. Now we rollover.
I wake and return the blankets I’ve stolen.
In the mornings there is music.
A kitchen dance of tip-toes and arms at war with air.
The new car with its heated seats.
There’s a pace I like.
It’s microwaved tea;
it’s 11:30 a.m.;
it’s one more chapter before.
I listen to you get ready,
a chorus of tubes uncapped
and capped, of hairdryers
plugged and unplugged.
You sing softly.
I hear this, too.
Beyond this house,
a brook, a mountain, a trout.
Distances mapped.
Plans drawn with
parallel lines, listless and drifting.
Within,
there is no god, and he is love,
and we are his prophets.
You are my practitioner.
And I, yours.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 4:58 PM UTC
We like our anger pickled
dessicated, fried.
We've had it boiled, baked,
rewarmed, microwaved on high.
We most enjoy it on holidays
served across the table
by siblings that we despise.
Dec 24, 2010
Dec 24, 2010 at 9:40 PM UTC
It's Been Awhile
since I wrote a love poem.
after all what needs this world
yet another Declaration of Inter-Dependence?
Lazy afternoon, sun kicked out the overcast drizzle,
that made you decide to cook, my heart sizzle.
You bang honey, BBQ sauce, tomato something or other
into one of your own poems, I am a couch potato observer.
Strumming my thoughts, note plucking,
Looking for two or three chords to
Basis-form a shapely container ship
For sharing what I am feeling.
A Dylan-like tune of my own growling,
begins to format, and next,
(you know what's a coming),
start singing my very own verbal song,
Nat-named this lyrical beat,
A Declaration of Inter-Dependence.
If not for you:
I would weep more.
I would weep less,
(so many tears of joy!).
My carousel, horse back riding days,
would be over, ended.
I would never make a bed unasked
(but it gives you so much pleasure).
I would live on Frosted Flakes
and microwaved hot dogs
**I would die w/o ever seeing
someone weep after reading my poetry.**
For that alone...
I declare my whole state of being
being dependent on another's existence.
Ok. All done. Sneak-peeking in the oven
To see what my love is poeming for our
dinner.
You may now move about the inter-dependent cabins of our
heart.
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
She entered through the back bedroom window .
She said she had my key
When I foolishly asked her
"Why you crossexamining me ?"
I dropped out of the University
I got myself a steady job
Working part time on the weekends
It had benefits without the friends
Then I spent the coldest winter
Without any heat or bread
I microwaved Idaho potatoes
They called me "Tater Head"
Now didn't anybody see
Now was there anyone who cared
Sunday was just another Monday
When is a rabbit not a hare ?
Well I found myself another girlfriend
I was sure now of her honesty
I came home from work one evening
To find my microwave wasn't there
Now I could have sat down and cried
But I never had a chair
Just some cushions on the floor
Hot and cold roaches everywhere
Now the future was looking bleak
Winter turned to spring you see
A thunderstorm turned tornadic
Took my apartment away from me
Didn't anybody see
I'm sure that nobody cared
Sunday turned into a Monday
All I said was,"So there" . . . oh , my .
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC
Good morning again. Wake the **** up! Back to sleep once again in my head. Sway back and forth in front of the mirror until I **** near collapse into the wall with a stream of drool perfectly poised at my mouth before I wipe it off and sit on the toilet.
Perhaps my phone will keep me awake.
Nope.
I'm rocking again and only give up on trying to stay awake bare assed when my phone hitting the floor prompts me up and at em once more to lay in the tub that, once filled, barely covers my **** and ***** that are forcefully tucked underneath my gut flop.
Awake again now
sweatier than before
less refreshed than left over fries after a microwaved cycle.
Them: "look how different your life is."
Me: "new responsibilities - same limitations."
I haven't grown. Life changes. Look back at the pictures and you'll see - less hair on the head that surrounds the same fat face.
At least I wear deodorant, although it is my wife's until I pick up some more of my own.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
Standing head and shoulders
Above seated students
Professing all he knows
And much he doesn't
Through squeaky chalk
Bored with lessons learned
Tattered black jacket collar
Covered with white dust
Like the dandruff
Of faded knowledge
Waiting for the last bell
And cacophony of students
Exiting for a night on the town
So he can trudge through
The gray slush home
To empty house and
Microwaved sirloin tv dinner
Wishing he had a yipping poodle
Instead of the silent company
Of Jim Beam to while away his hours
r ~ 26Feb14
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
In a brutish manner
I raise a glass to Billy Collins
my lips stained purple,
from
seven ninety-nine ($)
dark Chilean wine
that is infused with strawberries, cherries,
and do I detect the taste of…alcohol?
My packaged delights, basics from Safeway.
Green, red, white vegetables with origins unknown
had clattered, frozen, out of a bag, not fifteen minutes ago
I snap the bag with a satisfying thwack,
the chicken is ready from a microwaved attack.
But the noodles, oh, so sweet.
Plump little bags of cheese and oh--brie!
Sweet no matter what sauce, I drown and I savor
Wrapping the package with greens and with flavor.
I curl up in repose, stuffed to the brim
swirling my glass, getting seconds again.
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 11:55 PM UTC
Breaking away from the madness,
paperwork stares at my departure
Frowns follow my every move,
questions form in curious (nosey) minds
Eyes glance over cubicles
as whispers raise above the din
Styrofoam containers of microwaved soup
are slurped from plastic spoons
They wonder, they gossip, they point with hidden fingers
while wasting away in their unhappiness
Wishing the same on another...
because it makes them feel better?
Still I walk through this jungle of desks,
a bounce in my step, my heart giggling
Smiling at the clock (Which at this moment is my friend),
with its two beautiful hands pointing straight up
For it is lunchtime, my quiet time,
that precious hour in the middle of each work day,
sixty minutes of pure bliss
that I spend with you
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
I am from willow trees and Black Eyed Susan's
From pealed wallpaper bedroom walls and Barbie Dolls
I am from small night lights and late night terrors
From Shepard's Pie and yellow American Cheese
I am from the Victorian grey and half green painted house on a four cornered road.
From T.V. tag with my brothers and cousins.
From Veronica, my only day care friend.
I am from Disney movies and The Wiggles.
From The Game Of Life and Spyro
From baby sized microwaved pizzas and slumber parties at Grandmas
I am from my Grandmother silver roster hair
Her eagerness to make everyone happy, and her thoughtfulness.
From field hockey games and fudgesicle’s
I’m from every possible place in my dreams and reality.
From not knowing what will come next.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 9:45 PM UTC