Jaimi M Nov 2014

Let your lips
graze my skin,
leaving no
exposed patch
Pepper my
broken pieces
with your perfect
bandaids and
mend the scars
I swear would
never leave.
I am utterly
you are the
antidote I
I'd never

Tear Drop Dec 2015

Sam Pepper posted a video
on YouTube. It showed one
friend pretending to be
kidnapped, and shot and
killed in front of his best
friend. His best friend,
believing that he'd watched
the other die, said,
"Please, no, he's all
that I have."

Solaces Aug 2014

What will it be today?"  
" I'll have some garlic, pepper and coke. "
" will that be all?"

Log:  Ship Orinas last:

I made a short stop on planet earth.  I am back in route toward home.  Of course it's not every day one gets to stop and have the best spices and drink in the galaxy.

Must taste good else where.
Mutulu Kafele Oct 2014

Someone stole the last piece of my turkey sandwich.
I bet the motherfucker put some pepper on it.
I hope it was pepper from that
dirty ass pepper-shaker that is no longer see-through.
That bastard left me with one poker-chip pickle slice and
Those pieces of potato chips that you
Have to spear with a fingertip to eat.
That son-of-a-bitch!
I am sure he put mustard on that last piece of turkey sandwich;
In that delicate delicatessen squiggly pattern that is all in the wrist.
-And, speaking of wrist, that jerkoff forged my signature perfectly.
He even put another Lone Star bottle on my tab then
Neatly arranged the bottle caps next to four toothpicks.
That suave motherfucker.
To honor him, when I get home
I am going to smoke his weed,
Fuck his girlfriend and take his shit.

Ding! 2012 Montrose Rock Revel
RIP Jeff Hunter
Copyright 2012.
Dylan Mallard Apr 2014

Life is a pepper grinder
We all start out as a plant
We grow and grow
Until we have withered
Again and again
We are picked and gathered
Put into the grinder
We add to the hot steaming soup
Of someone we'll never know

Joshua Quinones Nov 2011

It rained a lot that June,
and July,
and August,
but mostly June;
probably no more than any other start of summer,
or middle,
or end.

But this time I was there
to feel it;
to hear it; to smell it,
and to watch it from a splintery chestnut bench
beneath the sheltering arms of Blueberry.

It was an eyelid-drooping-day
(that day we arrived),
and I remember well
the syrupy spread of hazy heat
o’er that frog polluted lake (or pond)
and the perspiration, all but dripping from every spruce
(or hemlock).

“And this,” David said, “is the Barn.”
Cracked and shaky it stood
like a dusty, weathered book,
unwanted, tossed into the woods.
“Here stay the pigs and the horses.”

“And this,” Daniel said, “is the animal pen.”
Where goats and sheep of black and white
roved their cells with passive acceptance,
and puppies pawed and nipped at each other’s ears,
and ducks awaited the arrival of a hungry fox
(that blasted, blasted fox)

And then the Taj Mahal
like a jewel protruding from the forest’s earthy bosom,
sporting its sparkling bathroom
stretching on as a football field,
complete with stadium seats
of the finest porcelain.

Through the burning day we rambled,
every inhale, a different experience—
for me: aromas of the new
to someday fashion potent memories,
for them: a blissful return.
Like coming home
(as in fact it was).

And though it had a night,
that day could run forever
on a thin white track
picked freshly off the stack,
but it won’t
for it was but the first domino
and maybe even the one that is blank on both sides.

Lazily we fell
as if onto the moon
through mornings of sluggish scrubbing,
afternoons of anything, anything at all,
and bare-chest-bonfire nights.

And that rubber ball
loving no one like it did Philip.
With solid swings; fantastic flourishes
his hand was as God’s—
directing the perilous orbit with ease
and the care of a diamond cutter.

And so it was us,
the four:
I, the brothers, and the ruler of the tethered pole
conquering seven foot ping pong tables
and seven acre deer fences
and mountains.

So passed weeks, and we were diminished
to a trio
for David had stepped off of the continent
to the land of the “highest” religion,
but we didn’t miss a beat
and plowed through month’s end, ridding our bodies of water
through nothing but sweat.

And we held every moment for ransom
forcing the next to give us better
so by sunset we were rich as kings,
and then Robin Hood would slip out of the woods
and rob us blind ‘til we awoke
and stole it all back.
So came July,
trotting in with bloated pride
upon his mighty steed of white
and red
and blue,
and us:  riding cheerfully behind.

It was a splendid night on moon-streaked shores
where once again we fell
to one less than three,
and Daniel with his ancient mandolin,
    and I with hearty laughter
played the night a song more lovely even than those steady, falling waves
under bottle rocket stars.

Then celebration folded
as peace made way
for mighty conqueror’s return,
and we paraded through the streets
(gravel strewn, and dusty clouded),
four flags raised high on their posts
once again.

Our arrival was rejoiced
and met with days of games and feasting,
and we embraced our loyal subjects
and friends
and family
and bathed in bliss until our skin wrinkled.

The festivities were a glorious potpourri
of doctor ball and bombardment,
frisbee goal and son of prisoner’s base,
but one kicked dust in all of there faces
and was known to only us.

The most dangerous game,
in expansive fields of ferns and fiery thorns
and rivers of knotted rhododendrons
was played,
and we were darting swallows, prancing fawns, and stealthy owls
hunters and hunted
wielding broken hockey sticks.

Our war wounds burned
when merged with the salty grime
of humidity and blood
and ravenous gnats.
Gritting our teeth, we brandished our staves,
Hacking through brush, towards survival.

Each quivering breath—
an alarm
-to prey or predator-
‘til we discovered it was just our own,
and then a snapping twig
would bulge our eyes and wretch our heads
to put us right back on our guard.

And when the chase was on
it was a race against the beating of our hearts
(whose footsteps may have ran a mile
in a minute).
With flailing arms, wildly we sprinted
grateful to the wind
for tending to our wounds.

And it always came down to three:
two to make the wolf
against one to make the timid hare,
and our brilliant, clashing swordplay
out-rang the tick of the clock
until our arms were merely crutches
held firm against our quavering knees.  
Hungry, weary, we returned
to eat our fill and drink
nearly twenty glasses of water,
and Nate: his nine cups of tea,
and Sarah: her mug, larger than the coffee pot itself,
and Rhodan: the entire pond
for his sweat-rag had sucked him bone dry.

We sat impatiently
conversing through our grinning teeth
who yearned to navigate the textures of the awaited food.
And then it arrived,
shoved out onto ebony countertops,
accompanied by salt
and pepper.

We downed every morsel
in a single,
hour-long gulp,
then cursed our gluttonous guts
for expanding far beyond their boundaries
and sat
for walking was as thin a hope as eating dessert.

Rhodan then reached his charcoal hand
and swiped the salt from where it had static stood:
beneath the feet of its dark companion.
I watched in wonder as the dropped container swayed and swayed—
a drunkard with his shoes nailed firmly to the ground—,
then righted itself with a final shake.

We all declared it simple
and stacked the salt atop the dusky survivor.
Swipe after swipe, we beat that pepper bloody
and left the pale mineral to gravity’s mercy,
rebuilding and razing again and again
our cookies n’ cream totem pole,
but not a soul prevailed.

Finally, Rhodan interrupted our failures,
and between squeaking giggles voiced,
“Well, you can’t do it that way!”
and gently helped the milky shaker to its feet
and retrieved the other battered building block.

“You see,”  
he said while delicately setting his stage
“the pepper must always be on top.”
With a blink he swept his hand across the table
rendering the black bottle dizzy
but securely parked in its place.
“It’s the only one that can land on its feet.”

Amazed, we tried again,
of course
and succeeded for the most part,
both perplexed and delighted—
a combination that is
a magician’s best friend.

Although, Rhodan was no magician,
just a giddy boy
who understood simple physics
and lived for moments where he could explain
his confused and jumbled symbolism
(the kind that you know you could discover
if you searched for half of a Summer).

Then August
Where time, not at all anxious to win,
slowed tremendously on the homestretch.
Every day that passed was a cloud
who emptied all of its contents
before waving goodbye.

The water slowed our falling bodies even more
(as water tends to do),
and David with his quiet disposition
sung the loudest, danced the wildest
at waning firesides,
and soon we all began to wish
that we would never land.

And as the ground rushed ever nearer
we made our final mark
on brim of mighty mountain
whose shadow had generously cooled us from the sun
all Summer.

And the skies leased a stronger storm
than any we had ever beheld,
and gazing from that towering peak
into the face of midday’s cloud,
we thanked God
for not dropping us as hard as he did that rain.

And now, thinking back,
I would say it rained more in August
than in June
for that single afternoon of thunder shattered skies
must have drowned the earth a thousand times over
and then some.

And when we made our dripping descent,
I heard the echo of a gleeful voice
revealing the secret,  
and I knew then that we were pepper,
that we would land feet first
so as to leap straight up again.

That we would soar
  from the chalky flats of that pallid moon
to discover planets of lower gravity
and more rain
and greener forests
and higher towers.

Jonny Angel May 2014

I'm a pepper junkie,
from the mild
to nuclear,
I'll eat them all.

BBQ chicken wings,
roast pork,
baked stork
& tacos,
just pile up the
ghost pepper,
maye a habanero or two.

All my kin
know how delicious
thay are going down
& how fiery
they are coming out.

But no matter,
I don't care about
the bewares
& shout for more
of those hot
explosive gems.

Sue Dunhym Apr 2011

Grounds of caffeine and capsaicin
Surround my feet.
Tiny specks spilt
From a nonchalant cupboard.
Effective, yet useless
Down by me feet.

Gather the specks
And boil the concoction!
Mix the beverage
And pour it into a cup!
Drink, bastard, drink!

How morose. How macabre.
The dog has moved to another tree.
The bitch merely ignores it. Rejects it.
Give a visage of violence.
It’s alright now, you’re safe.

She calls again.
You answer.
The tree is not the tree.
But a special tree.
A sip, a sip, take another sip.

Gulp it and see.
See the busy bumblebee,
And the ascending anathema
And the cacophanous cunt.
It is all beautiful. Ambiguous. Curious.

How odd, the drink I consume.
And there you stand. Oblivious to me.
I call and you turn, briefly.
Are you a ghost? Angel? Demon?
I don’t know.
But you begin to blur.
It cannot be stopped.
I will miss you.

Grounds of caffeine and capsaicin:
What a beverage. What a drink.
No bricks. No lemons.
Just my serendipitous spill.
If only I had
Grounds of capsaicin and caffeine.

copyright of TP Flusk
Amber S Oct 2013

i guess i need more mentally disturbed
i’m feeling lately like the scab that’s been picked off,
forgotten, dried up, designating.
people don’t understand when i say my heart feels like it will
explode out of my lungs, throughmythroat and get caught between
my anxieties need a fuck buddy, because making eye contact
is even too
much. and i wish i could stop assuming the worst.
"jesus, you worry too much"
i can’t help that i find the flaws, the nit picky things,
the traits that i want to squish like
i can’t help that when i sit alone in my car,
i think too often of swerving into highways and wondering what a deer
sees before it
that’s why i don’t talk about this, i never can anyway,
they swell and sit upon my tongue like when you ate that pepper whole
and all i tasted was flames.  
my anxieties and i are the kind of friends where we speak nicely
and are all smiles in front of one another,
but as soon as we turn around,
all we say is venom.

K Balachandran May 2016

Once I chased a girl in Calicut,
Her diet, just pepper, not her fault,
Wooing her I'd plead,
"You are hot, I am glad,
But burn just my mouth, understood?"

Calicut in the original spice country, Kerala, South India is the sea port Portuguese explorer and seafarer, Vasco da Gama the first European to discover sea route to India , landed in A.D.1498 .Pepper was the main reason for this adventure, that led to Portuguese colonization of Kerala and nearby  region.Malayalam , the language of Kerala and Portuguese share quite a number of words, as a result of this interlude(eg;Calico-a fabric originally from Calicut).Later the Dutch, the next wave of colonizers (who were Protestants) ousted the Catholic Portuguese from their head quarters in Cochin and occupied their place, till the British came along and pushed them out..Europian powers of yore fought their proxy religio, socio, economic wars in a far away land.Oh!yes,! the French also had in between their share of  colonial success in Kerala, where still the Francophone culture remains..
Cynthia Jean May 2016

the salt and pepper of life

the rich nuggets

precious little details
that we miss

in our overwhelm

the little jewels
of everyday life
that make it
so sweet


all the days of our lives

cj 2016

May God open our eyes everyday to His gifts...that we wouldn't miss anything!
Robert Potter Sep 2011

I am filled with regret

You were strong. You were brave. You were reliable.

I long to go back if God would allow
But who can fight time’s unrelenting tide?

I am filled with longing.

They miss you. I know they I do. I know I do.

The lack of shade. The sun’s smothering embrace.
If only I’d thought, and not run away.

I am filled with remorse.

Will you forgive me?

I am filled with regret.

You were the best dog a family could have.

Peyton Scott Feb 2014

Back when no one spoke of love
because it was too hard to explain,
daddy use to tell stories at the dinner table
using salt and pepper shakers,
and mommy would listen
but I would not,
because children
did not listen to salt and pepper shaker stories.
Maybe if I had listened just a little bit harder
mommy and daddy would still love each other.
But I never listened
and daddy never stayed.

A few years later
daddy still told stories around the dinner table
using forks and knives and empty plates
to people who never cared and never listened
and mommy wasn’t around.
But I still was
and I was the only one to listen.

His stories weren’t of love,
or life
or anything anyone would remember tomorrow
or the next day,
but if I learned anything from those
salt and pepper shaker stories
and the fork and knive tales,
it was
never fall in love

and I never did.

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