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Olivia Kent Sep 2014
Those spuds were all dug up,
using a fork of tempered steel,
The potatoes with all seeing eyes,
Met harvest with a fleeting glimpse.
Popped neatly in a washing up bowl.
Given a wholesome freshening shower.
Into a cooker where the pressure built so.
In their hearts they softened you know.
The bubbling water, it did go.
Pressure off with the flick of a switch,
The cook she stabbed them,
The *******.
Relieved the rather hot sensation,
Through the colander they went dry and amazing.
Drizzled them with just a trickle of milk,
Added a touch of butter and pepper.
Now with the seasoning all complete,
Mashed to bits.
Let's all eat.
Dinners up,
Sweet!
(c) Livvi
I'm hungry,,,lol **
Robin Carretti Aug 2018
Every* fine* detail*
Getting  flushed the
blues inside the
red I phones
The lonesome blue
Ring my Rolling Stones
Waking up in [Blue Oceania]
Mama Mia bluesy jazz me waterbed

Hazy, not one yellow daisy
*hurry up your driving me_crazy
          In love like the
Foggy Day in London Town
The saying *New York like no other town

Forget about it Brooklyn is my town

Wearing your face with frowns
like a vine of tomatoes

Is it your time for Victories

Those rotten movies and
throwing those forgotten
  Love potatoes
At the Villa looking
out he's the Captain of the blue sea
My Alaskan blue eye husky
Meet Charlie or the Bumble Bee
Tuna fish

Saw the fog getting stronger
The winter is hazy don't be
the chicken of the sea

  She was spinning her mind into the
vertigo love is crazy
The crazy love''Hugo"
Hers and his E- ecstasy twin-mail
Hazy is just the way you feel
His strings azure blues power tie
She felt other blues what lies

Workout blues hazy spirit greys
She prays hazy winters of blueberry pie

Hearing the blues rush of water
The waitress taking his order
Inside her tasty fingers
The blues "*****" lightly stir
How she met his brother
But why? Don't you love me, Sir

Eyes of blues flower irises
Her blues pour crystal sugar
She turned her head surprises
Swarovski crystal bead
What was said singing the blues
Shades of deep sensual gray
The shapes of things Godly pray
How many words could
you possibly say
When you catch your breath
His eyes are bluer than your
Heart intense red his iron shirts
Got badly burned

Pumpkin Head met sesame seed
flatbread in the modern flat world
Eating a blueberry muffin top
Who has the open mind
Her blues boysenberries
Doing Hip-hop
By her nook pulling the blinds
How the blood stain her lips
Fashion art Chanel cherries
The bloodshot eyes
Caught her fire candle

Wonka" Blues house Coffee Diva

Hazy blown out of
proportion blue
"Hazy Just So" how do you do it
Do you go through her dreams?

Another brainstorm little
boy blue like a fairytale
So inviting love true lights
Just so in her beam another
enticing clue its never what it seems
Just because there is so much blue
Life shouldn't trick you just kick
off your shoes


Just Relax meditate your body flex
The Gulf of Mexico the blue sharks
Take a bite any kind of fish the
whale of a blue wish
The weather so many changes
crazy or not
Everything feels right
when you tie the knot
So hazy the winter to the spring and the summer flowers bluish morning glory September trying to remember the birth of all shades of babies wearing little boy blue but this goes beyond anyone's spirit colors come out the way you seem to see it so live it singing the blues-rock your waves in those velvet shoes
Harrison Apr 2017
My grandpa who eats steamed sweet potatoes on foothills textured in green rice patties
dreamt up a tall brick house with a black iron gate
barbwires sprung around the tips of the entrance to keep out thieves
right now he wonders how long he can keep fibbing to my mother—
their rotten hut at the end of the massive foothill, not fleeting
monsoons come early, swells the ground till it gave
a landslide takes four people and a child

that day, red stars hung above Tiananmen square gates
grounded bones came in sacks, white cement hauled by green skin trucks

My grandpa who loves sweet potatoes constructs an ivory wall.

after the revolution, the sun peeks out in montages
peering through the smoke
gunpowder stuck to the tank tire roads
black heads roll off yellow tar dirt into a pit
My grandpa gives his best friend one thousand yuan—
visas for my mother and grandma,
His best friend disappears,

writes my grandpa
an apology and, leaves him a large white sack of uncooked sweet potatoes

light tan, severs in half and plops down on the lumpy cutting board,
dusty orange inners, grandpa tosses them in the boiling water
and later, while gnawing down,
he pretends they are oranges for once

Grandpa, who’s kneeling on our dried front yard with a worn out copper pail
waters the salty earth slowly until it sprouts sugar canes
chops one down, breaks it in half, the sun beats
peering through palm leaves
a viridescent river of silk and pale honey
my small three year arms grab a hand full
sliced by grandpa into pieces neatly placed
in a blue flowered ceramic bowl
years later, I chop a stalk down and chew until
English becomes a second language again
and in my twenties, I grab a hand full
sliced my mom into pieces, places them in a weaved basket
made of reinforced bamboo
I put it in front of my grandpa’s grave
in Fujian on the foggy mountainside of a small retirement town.
The edge of the South China coast covered in a thick plastic smog,
I sit on a stone eating sweet cold potatoes with my grandpa facing outland,
a red kneeing sun, barely visible past the trees
Viciousness in the kitchen!
The potatoes hiss.
It is all Hollywood, windowless,
The fluorescent light wincing on and off like a terrible migraine,
Coy paper strips for doors --
Stage curtains, a widow's frizz.
And I, love, am a pathological liar,
And my child -- look at her, face down on the floor,
Little unstrung puppet, kicking to disappear --
Why she is schizophrenic,
Her face is red and white, a panic,
You have stuck her kittens outside your window
In a sort of cement well
Where they crap and puke and cry and she can't hear.
You say you can't stand her,
The *******'s a girl.
You who have blown your tubes like a bad radio
Clear of voices and history, the staticky
Noise of the new.
You say I should drown the kittens. Their smell!
You say I should drown my girl.
She'll cut her throat at ten if she's mad at two.
The baby smiles, fat snail,
From the polished lozenges of orange linoleum.
You could eat him. He's a boy.
You say your husband is just no good to you.
His Jew-Mama guards his sweet *** like a pearl.
You have one baby, I have two.
I should sit on a rock off Cornwall and comb my hair.
I should wear tiger pants, I should have an affair.
We should meet in another life, we should meet in air,
Me and you.

Meanwhile there's a stink of fat and baby crap.
I'm doped and thick from my last sleeping pill.
The smog of cooking, the smog of hell
Floats our heads, two venemous opposites,
Our bones, our hair.
I call you Orphan, orphan. You are ill.
The sun gives you ulcers, the wind gives you T.B.
Once you were beautiful.
In New York, in Hollywood, the men said: 'Through?
Gee baby, you are rare.'
You acted, acted for the thrill.
The impotent husband slumps out for a coffee.
I try to keep him in,
An old pole for the lightning,
The acid baths, the skyfuls off of you.
He lumps it down the plastic cobbled hill,
Flogged trolley. The sparks are blue.
The blue sparks spill,
Splitting like quartz into a million bits.

O jewel! O valuable!
That night the moon
Dragged its blood bag, sick
Animal
Up over the harbor lights.
And then grew normal,
Hard and apart and white.
The scale-sheen on the sand scared me to death.
We kept picking up handfuls, loving it,
Working it like dough, a mulatto body,
The silk grits.
A dog picked up your doggy husband. He went on.

Now I am silent, hate
Up to my neck,
Thick, thick.
I do not speak.
I am packing the hard potatoes like good clothes,
I am packing the babies,
I am packing the sick cats.
O vase of acid,
It is love you are full of. You know who you hate.
He is hugging his ball and chain down by the gate
That opens to the sea
Where it drives in, white and black,
Then spews it back.
Every day you fill him with soul-stuff, like a pitcher.
You are so exhausted.
Your voice my ear-ring,
Flapping and *******, blood-loving bat.
That is that. That is that.
You peer from the door,
Sad hag. 'Every woman's a *****.
I can't communicate.'

I see your cute décor
Close on you like the fist of a baby
Or an anemone, that sea
Sweetheart, that kleptomaniac.
I am still raw.
I say I may be back.
You know what lies are for.

Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.
Dorothy A Aug 2010
Phone in your home
Phone with you on the road
Three way connections
Incoming calls, not one, but another-aka call waiting
Phones with caller ID
Cordless phones
Hands free phones
Toothy phones sticking out of people's ears
Picture phones...say cheese!
Phone texting instead of talking
Hello? I cannot hear you!

Television and movies in your home
DVD players in your car
Watch those images on your computer
Watch them on your cell phone
Television in the airport
Television in the restaurant
Television at the gas pump
Television in the grocery store line
What's next? Television in the operating room?

Music on your home stereo
Music on your car radio
Store it all on your traveling ipod
Melodious cell phone rings everywhere
Your mp3 player and new computer speakers
Your favorite cable music channels
And plenty of music blasted in the stores
Can't I just have a thought to myself?

Don't forget computers!
Instant messaging
Junk mail in cyberspace
All your shows and movies
always at your instant access
Computer dating
Computer stalkers and hacking
Computer crashes I foresee
because computer bugs and viruses
are trying to invade my soul!
And I feel sick!

I can't get that music out of my head!
I think my ears are ringing!
You've heard of couch potatoes
I think I'm a mouse potato!
How is that for a human spud?
Yes, I admit I'm addicted to my PC!
That I spend more time with technology
than I do with the human race!

I should be burnt out
like old hardware
that is on extreme overload
Not made of wires and steel
but of flesh and blood
I am designed!

But I can't stop!!!

The technology of the future is now here!
I know what George Jetson was saying when he said:
JANE! GET ME OFF THIS CRAZY THING!
High on'a farm,
make a needle biscuits
water-up sits creek
jostle potatoes,
pan-*** boiling
-with carrot cake.

Purple sky,
tractor runnin'
time of day,
sun low.

E'er body say,

"Why dou'a on'a farm?"

entered-dat du da future;
not Ford'ed fields.
Face it dou'a future,

"Dat future know it's place."

Sweet devils singin' to me,
sweetened tongue a' beautiful place. . .

"E'erthing set in place, ***** wit I say,
-dinner on-ma tray."

Logan Cestare Jan 2019
Depression is like
Taste buds slowly being ripped from my mouth
A weird feeling that anything I eat
Doesn't make it to my stomach, but,
I've gotta keep eating, I have to eat to live,
But preparing the food is just so much effort
For so little payoff.
Because it'll all just kinda taste like mashed potatoes.

I'll still be hungry afterwards
So why bother with seasonings?
Why bother with ingredients I used to like?
I can't taste them, I can't feel them in my stomach.
They just taste like plain mashed potatoes.
Why do I even eat?

I'm hungry.
I'm sick of the taste
Of mashed potatoes.
Why is this happening?
A poem based off of a Tumblr post by 57circlesofhell
Sharina Saad May 2013
Mrs Sharma is looking busy
Walking back from her yoga class
In Her right hand a bag full of potatoes
In her left hand, 2 kilos of onions
Its a freaking hot day in Delhi,
She stopped a taxi and hurried home
Aloo paratha her family's menu for today.

At home she went straight to her kitchen
Peeled and boiled the Potatoes
finely chopped Onion, coriander, ginger and chillies
Now where is the garam masala?
Here you are Mrs Sharma,
Salt Red Chili powder, Garam masala and some butter
Aloo Paratha with lots of butter,YUM YUM
Lunching at Sharma's home is Splendid
better than Mahesh Lunch Home in Juhu, Andheri.

Let's get started says Mrs Sharma
Let's make the dough
Make two chapati
add the filling to one chapati
and cover it with the second one.
Now Mrs Sharma rolls it slightly and heats it in the oven...

Let's ask Mrs Sharma,
Is food the elixir of life?
Yes very much she said
She feels like she is living for it.
As she spreads butter over the paratha
She says her mantra twice,
Eat healthy but don’t over eat.

She serves aloo paratha hot to her smiling kids
adds yoghurt to Mr Sharma's plate
she is so proud when she says to her family
Eat in moderation and eat healthy..
Smile and let's eat Aloo paratha Mrs Sharma's way...
Aloo paratha is my late mom's favourite..
Philip Finch Oct 2014
POTATOES are so livid,
and i think
if your belly had eyes like your face
  you would be half as insightful
as three words crawl over your skin
        while you sleep
        while you think
        while you push buttons and feed
  your ears with POTATOES.

for we are God, and you

  you are not.
24 Sept 2004
David Barr Dec 2013
The Kingdom of Morocco has a rugged mountain interior which reminds me of the British meal of mince and potatoes. But hold that thought, and examine our seemingly superior Western legislation. Just like the pickle, the dynasty of death is a brazen festival percussionist who is celebratory in her bitter and gustatory inevitability. Jizyah is that taxation which is imposed upon those who fail to conform to those expected societal norms. Although we have the status quo, one cannot help but wonder what happened to the rectitudes of individuality and paradoxical equality? So, where do we go, oh navigator of the great and mighty West? Marrakech or Rabat? I have no concrete awareness of where solace is to be found. I am lost! Therefore, I can only offer the following direction: Contemplate the ever-changing intricacy of the dunes in anthropological amazement and acknowledge the sky at night. Allow the celestial pole of the North Star to speak to your deep uncertainty. Our purpose is openly displayed if we simply open our heart in the midst of our Bedouin oasis. That, my friend, is the essence of being psychosocial.
Raphael Uzor Apr 2014
Slipping into my apron,
Hungry in body and soul
Humming as a song played...

I grab my knife and chop-board
Unsure of what to cook
Strange inspirations possess me
Filling me with *****!

My kitchen becomes a stage
In my hands- a plectrum and fretboard
Silver utensils- my live audience!

As I play divine recipes
Strumming master acoustic chords
Chopping fresh, colorful vegetables.

I dash to the remote,
Punch "Repeat" and dash back on stage
Landing on E♭ minor,
Scaling impossible notes,
I slice with razor-sharp plectrum,
On onions and other root chords
My fret arrayed with colors,
Of spinach, lettuce, tomatoes
Carrots, potatoes, olives
Pepper, cabbage and cucumbers.

I hear a thunder of applause
As I ignite the cooker
Butter sizzling in the hot pan
A staccato of sharp notes,
Ready to modulate innocent vegetables
Through spicy aromatic crescendos!


I fight hard to suppress a sneeze,
No sneezing on-stage! Unprofessional!
Multitudes of seconds rush by and…
Voila!!!

I stand for a moment
Salivating, awed at my bravura!
Wishing I could hang it on my wall
Tis beautiful like art
But I can’t eat this cake and have it!

So I dig in…
Heaven and earth kiss for a moment
L U S C I O U S!!!
Luckily, it didn’t taste nauseating
Like my last attempt.

No time for ceremonies
I munch from pan to mouth
Pausing for what may pass for a prayer,
I relish every bite!
Not that I’m a foodie or something,
But nothing beats this combo-
Of good food and soul music.

And yes,
Music is indeed food to the soul!
I devour, in view- the next meal...


© Raphael Uzor
Inspiration came while cooking and listening to Ayo’s And its Supposed to be Love
Tell me I'm not a foodie :-)
Michael Hoffman Jan 2016
Her transition ritual
between lovers
a masterpiece of denial
took at most
a week
before the rebuke
about what a ****
he was
and how dumb
the other was
and let me cook
the way to a man’s heart
always the stomach
until one man
an older wiser sort
told her
I don’t like potatoes
and you’re too cruel
I am afraid of you
and will not
be staying
for dinner.
The street
filled with tomatoes,
midday,
summer,
light is
halved
like
a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
In December,
unabated,
the tomato
invades
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
****** it:
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera
a cool
sun,
profound,
inexhaustible,
populates the salads
of Chile,
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
we
pour
oil,
essential
child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
pepper
adds
its fragrance,
salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding
of the day,
parsley
hoists
its flag,
potatoes
bubble vigorously,
the aroma
of the roast
knocks
at the door,
it's time!
come on!
and, on
the table, at the midpoint
of summer,
the tomato,
star of earth, recurrent
and fertile
star,
displays
its convolutions,
its canals,
its remarkable amplitude
and abundance,
no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and cool completeness.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
.before i come to the food topics, here's a pet peeve... language... how the pakistanis might / might not be offended by the laziness of the english, shortening their denotation to a prefix: ****-... and i'm like... is that really offensive? with the -stani suffix missing? o.k. o.k., iraq: iraqi... iran: iranian... pakistani: ****- / pakistani... so what about afghanistan? afghan, or afghanistani?! i'm pretty sure it's afghan... a person is afghani and not afghanistani... so what's wrong with ****-? it must be an english-****'stani thing from the 1960s or something... ******* as sensitive as french footballers... this has to be hard-pressed... this instance... because i hardly think it's a racial slur to stick to the prefix and not include the suffix, given the example from afghanistan - just like the "problem" of calling a jew a ***-, borrowed prefix from... yiddish! now for the food:

a. would you trust a skinny chef? i know i wouldn't trust a chef who's also a healthy-eating gym bro maniac, i bet he would never cook with lard or pork trimmings, with that calorie calculator lodged up his head that represents an ******* is not much to go with when taste is prime... 6ft1 253.5pounds, that's where i stand... i would never trust a health-freak to cook for me, let alone all the proofs rattling anorexic examples...

    b. "***** take your shoes off and get into the kitchen!" what a ****** joke, chauvanism rampant... mind you... who the hell said that women belong in the kitchen? they don't... i don't want a woman in the kitchen... i've had two dinners cooked by my fwends' mothers when still in my early teens... 1. over-cooked pasta... my fwends father would pretend to eat the dinner, before driving me home while stopping off at a sikh diner and took to the take-away (cooked by men), another example beside the over-cooked pasta? under-cooked spring potatoes - after all... the men on ships and submarines that kept the other men firing did all the cooking... men can cook... or at least: that's the least they should do... think: organic chemistry experiments...

eating a raw herring
in piquant mayonnaise
of reminiscence of a
granny-smith and pickled
cucumber tickle...
slurping it up into
a workout of the oesophagus
might remind many
of oral ***: but after all...
it's only a raw herring being eaten.

p.s. well perhaps gulping down
a raw oyster does feel familiar
to performing oral *** on a woman...
but since you're not really
chewing the oyster,
or licking it... but gulping it whole...
i can only compared performing
oral *** on a ***** to
                eating a raw herring.

            and why all of this talk of food?
well... what's on the menu for tomorrow?
a bangers & mash stew,
    old recipe from the days of the british
empire... mind you: why did they
call sausages bangers back then?
well, during the war, they put a lot of
water into the sausages...
and when water mixes with warm oil?
bang! bang!

                 'i was five and he was six,
   we rode on horses made of sticks,
he wore black and i wore white,
   he would always win the fight...
   bang! bang!
  he shot me down!
  bang! bang!
                 i hit the ground...
bang! bang!
   that awful sound...
bang! bang!
   my baby... shot me down!'
              (audio bullys ft. nancy s.) -

so obviously i had to take a walk
and buy the key ingredient...
   i.p.a.:
        and when they were stationed
in the raj, and the troops were receiving
provisions...
  the standard beer wouldn't last the trip,
going off...
     and dark port was too sweet...
so indian pale ale was invented:
   more potent alcohol content and brewed
based more on hops than barley or wheat...
bitter: but my god, what a strand of beer,
like your typical irish stout...
   which is why i never figured out
  the bud to be the king of beers...
   fermentation of rice? sure... it's crisp...
but also the sort of toddler **** you'd expect
from rice fermentation:
no body, no *****, no blood,
no palette...
      easy stew:
   sausages,
      onions, garlic, celery, carrots,
                  leeks...
     a bottle of i.p.a.,
   some to degrease the pan the sausages
and veg were fried on, the rest for the jacuzzi...
some water, bay leaf, salt to taste,
   tomato purée and 2tbsp
  of muscovado sugar to bite through
   the extra hops... mash on the side...
                  and an array of veg on the side too...

i still don't know where the idea
that women belong in the kitchen came from:
perhaps when the men were coal-miners,
and when the kitchen wasn't filled
with all the current day appliances
of convenience...
   when women worked as hard in the kitchen
as the men who worked in the coal-mine...
perhaps then, in the early part of the 20th
century... when spaghetti dough was hand-made
at home...
then a woman could take pride in her
house-keeping...
   now? now i guess: the same sort of melancholic
voice bound to nancy sinatra singing...
because once upon a time it was hard
work, running the house...
                       and then "suddenly"
everything became simple...
a man could walk into a coal-mine,
come back home and...
              make himself a decent meal...
  looking at what the english woman buy
in the supermarket?
      couch potato maidens...
       ready meal after yet another ready meal...
things have become so easy
that easy isn't enough...

      let me tell you a culinary ***** of a story...
the scurge of making homemade
ravioli! believe me... once a year is enough...
sure, it tastes great...
                  but once a year is enough.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2022
yesterday's cycling session broke me, perhaps not so much
the cycling as having cycled to the former village of
Wennington: oh **** me... this is sad...
it's not like wild fires on the news in California or
in Spain or Greece... this is right on my doorstep -
well... i felt pity: not guilt... i don't own a car...
                      it's pointless owning a car in London...
the public transport network is just too good
and owning a car is too expensive...
        plus i can go anywhere on a bicycle... i can skip
traffic... i: don't have to pay insurance...
i don't have to pay road tax... i don't have to pay
for an m.o.t. and i don't have to worry about breaking
down... just flat tyres from time to time:
and the odd crash... touch wood...
i only had one... but it was all my fault... i was drunk
and lost control of the bicycle while trying to avoid
a pothole...
               but it was still a great experience... falling
over the handlebars must have looked something
of a Francis Bacon painting... smudges of movement...
a black eye... a massive wound on the forehead
and on the cheek... a skid bruise on the forearm
and a massive bruise on the right leg with a mount
of an incision: a garden of lavender and plus around
it of dead blood...
                          spectacular, absolutely spectacular:
crashing like that on a bicycle...
   at work there's this girl: Harini - the law student...
the one who kept on nagging me
about how there are too many white judges...
   too many white judges... in England? or was she talking
about barristers? either way... i tell her:
as long as a system of meritocracy is in place...
then what has race got to do with it?
   equity, right? the equality of opportunity not
the equality of outcome, no?
a variation of natural selection - the most naturally
gifted at X ought to do X...
anyway she once rode those electric scooters...
but fell off... and she never went back on riding it...
*****... literally... how do these people live any life
worth contentment?
          would i give up my passion for cycling
just because of one crash?
                                    fat chance... sure...
the first time after the crash i was shaky...
                                     shaky ******* Stevens...
at one point a pain came back to all the areas mentioned:
and a headache too...
then again... as the saying goes...
drunks have the GPS implants of birds...
        and they also fall like sacks of potatoes,
meaning: they hardly break anything...
two examples...
1) the GPS of drunks...
                 i unexpectedly booked a flight to Athens...
don't ask... i was having one of those psychotic episodes...
which is sort of like a panic attack
   but a psychotic attack is a panic attack
     in reverse... you crave adrenaline to suppress it...
and unlike a panic attack which is localised on the spot
and in the moment... a psychotic attacks takes you places
and can last for days as you build up more
and more adrenaline from doing something very
unfamiliar... i flew to Athens... i spent the night
crying in Hyde Park (what the **** am i doing?
i don't know what i am doing) - then went to Gatwick
Airport in the morning... took a shower in the airport
bought new clothes in fat-face and ****** off...
  arrived in Athens... found a ****** hostel in the worst
part of Athens: one Diogenes of Sinope after another...
(bums, homeless philosophers)...
opened that bottle of absinthe and sat down on
the street... i remember... with my left hand i covered
my eyes and with my right hand i was pointing
at something... and laughing my socks off...
magpie-type cackling... maybe it was the absinthe
or maybe i was seeing something:
proud Greek with their expensive-pension
economies... ha...
            ****... what year must it have been?
     i was supposed to be working on the Olympic village
for the 2012 Olympics.... i'm guessing 2010 or 2011...
just before the Greek financial crisis emerged on
the global scale of being known about...

second day? i go into this market square and sit in a cafe
and start chatting to strangers...
turns out i'm going to join them in going to a *******...
mind you: i'm still in psychotic mode...
this could go either way... bad for me... or bad for them...
if they're lying, that is...
            complete strangers... just met them...
hmm... when in Greece you never really know if you're
talking to someone who's Greek...
some are pale in complexion while others look like
Syrians, Arabs... then again: this was my first time in
Greece so i shouldn't have expected to know what
the average Greek looks like: complexion and all...

so we get into the car... just outside the Parliament
and we drive acres and acres out of the city centre...
it must have been at least 30 minutes...
i had drank some of my absinthe prior: left over from
the night... we enter the *******...
oh man... my first time... i've been to brothels before...
strip clubs... a strange aura...
                  completely different... more teasing...
drinks... yep... immediately a girl walks up to me
and places a green plastic circle next to my glass...
what's this? well: now i do know: "green light"...
   for a private dance / something more...
    at least i knew that i was broke... i was broke...
i had about £30 in my bank account (funny... now i have
an emergency £3000)
                   but i'm like: i'm sort of enjoying the
show that's already costing me £5 a drink...
but she sticks around, we start chatting...
   then another older stripper gets involved...
blah blah this blah blah that...
                 i catch the eye of a third: the look she gave?
i will remember for the rest of my life...
it was not a scornful look, nor angry...
i was already burying my face in the older strippers
chest with her giggling: two on my arms
and a third looking on...
                   one of the guys that came in me kept
nagging me for money for drinks:
i said i have none...
until it hit me... i reached point £0...
            my card was denied...
                               credit card? me? me and a credit card
only met once... once upon a time...
when i was a kid and had my bank account set up...
credit cards are so ******* annoying: at least
that's what i found...
         you pay for something...
  and then... wait for a month to get the bill...
sure... credit in the form of a mortgage i can understand...
it's just credit cards i don't understand...
i only work with debit...
      i spend what i have rather than have what
i shouldn't have spent money on...
so anyway... this bouncer escorts me to the nearest
cash machine...
    as i tell him: to get some cash out...
i get the ******* escort and all (i said that already,
i know) to a hotel... he ***** off to talk to the concierge
while i fiddle a bit at the cash machine...
then... i start ******* myself...
          ah... the sort of "sobering" ******...
i look where the bouncer is and... leg it...
literally speedy Gonzales it out of there... or did i just
sneak out? memory: fuzzy... perfect when it
comes to a-b-s-o-l-u-t-e truths like 2 + 2 and spelling
but memory from experience? fuzzy... fiddly...
anyway... first time in Athens... no map...
nothing... zilch... i don't know how i managed
to get back to the hostel with the already disgraceful
fact that i ****** myself...
     i was thinking: oh... ****... this bouncer is going
to bring me into an alley and beat the **** out of me:
wrong... working on a debit system means you
can't overstep the mark... i didn't own anyone
in the ******* any money: i was bad-money free...
but that's the point a drunk has a GPS like birds
have when migrating...
                    that's why i won't stop drinking...
it's too good for my brain... and the liver i can box
around with... but how the hell did i manage
to find my way back to the hostel when the car trip
was like 30 minutes long... we must have been doing
(on average) around 40 km/h that's 20km (circa)...
in the end i stayed one more night in Athens...
no... i didn't visit the Acropolis... i had it in plain sight...
i liked the fact that it remained on the hill
and i was down below: some things are best kept
forbidden... but i did manage to write some poetry
in the hostel...
    i then emailed my uncle and asked him for enough
money for a bus ticket... from Athens... via coach
to Katowice... through Macedonia, Serbia...
  Hungary... Czech Republic...
           and then to my grandparent's house...
where: finally the psychotic attack was soothed
by reading a book or two and talking with my grandfather...


2) drunks fall like sacks of potatoes...
my godmother had this anecdote... she was sitting
on the balcony of her flat... she heard
a whizz of air and a thump on the ground...
apparently one drunk was locked out of his house
by his wife... he tried to get in through the balcony
having climbed the roof and descending
from the 10th floor to the 7th... well: when there's
an "oops" like that... he fell... 7 floors...
what's that? 30 metres?
                he fell like a sack of potatoes...
like that Salman Rushdie opening where Satan
is falling head first and careless... while Gabriel
is falling trying to invent wings flapping and crazy...
probably feet first trying to be: SUPER-CAT...
catch a rhythm of the flapping hope to land on all 4s?
it gets me every time i replay that memory in my head...
the way she dropped the punch-line:
i like my godmother... i don't see her frequently /
not at all... but she's a heavy drinker too...
intelligence... it burdens the mind sometimes...
we need to slow down...
she's a doctor i'm a poo-et...
                        anyway... so she hears this whizz in the air
and a thumb... the ****** landed
   about 10cm from a metal pike... in some bushes...
7 ******* floors... he gets up and utters the words
'o kurva' (i.e. oh ****)... and walks off...
that's a bit like me and my cycling "accident"...
a guy got out of his car and ran up to me
bandaged my head while i was figuring out
why my hands were red (from touching my forehead):
two old women screaming...
i was asked if they should call the ambulance...
gladly they mistook my drunk-state for a state-of-shock...
i was like: no no.... but thank you...
i walked off... came home and took the best
medical advice available: self-prescribed (of course)
i.e. sleep...

i sometimes wonder why i'm not your stereotypical drunk...
i drink to hyper-focus on something...
i never get angry... well... i get angry at things:
because they're so ignoble... then again:
defining what a "thing" is hard when dealing
with a well-crafted table or a chair...
i don't actually know how to define "things"...
even "nothing" is a "thing"...
            the supposed "nothing" is a gateway to antimatter...
i suppose the closest "thing" to a THING
is what's an abstraction in the distance...
something you pass at speed that you: don't necessarily
ignore but don't take a concentrated account of:
you don't focus on it... ah! i know the best
example of what a "thing" is...
esp. in a gallery... looking at a painting hanging
on a wall... that's perfect... the wall is a THING...
because you're actually looking at a painting...
mind you... i appreciate all the classical paintings
of the Renaissance... but... you can't see any brush-strokes...
i like paintings where brush strokes are
visible: it's painting then: it's not geometry riddling...
painting by way of insinuating the idiosyncracy
of the hand by leaving several if not dozens of "accents"...
that's why i compared my cycling crash
to Francis Bacon's paintings...
                         well, sure: because the theme of the macabre
also helps... as did his ****-erotica...
and the drinking...
thank **** i'm not a loser drunk that needs
to drink to pronounce some averse trait of masculinity...

better for me being this loved up fool
with a GPS of birds migrating in my head
and a body that behaves like a sack of potatoes
when any harm should come to its bones...
i fall like a cube... a sack of potatoes...
anyway...
         can i imagine living a life that...
like this coworker suggested: oh no, no no...
one fall... i'm not getting back on the electric scooter...
*****...
          then again: cycling is my passion:
i hate runners... those arithmetic arthritis wonders
of the world: jelly-knees i call them:
if you're going to run! run on grass!
and mind you: if the "mob" should ever come for me...
they better not be driving cars...
cars make no sense in London...
too expensive...

                        now... the pivot... i have an 8am appointment
with my hairdresser tomorrow...
i needed to start drinking early so i could write
this and go to bed by 12am...
i'm coming to the ****** and i don't want
to come to the ******...
  the heat-wave is over... i can finally breathe...
ah... i think that's how you write...
or begin writing...
                all those very important people
and all their very important "autobiographies":
let's face it... ghost-written while still alive...
   i guess biographies make more sense...
i think fame, in the truest sense is a testimony
of post-mortem...
    i don't believe in fame in one's own lifetime...
i think fame is something akin to
what's most temporal: what can be passed on...
what employs being passed on for so long
that the name most associated with...
for example...

who invented Champagne? Dom Perignon...
ha ha... back in Poland we were taught
the French song:
frèe jacques:
        
frère Jacques
frère Jacques
dormez vous?
dormez vous?
sonnez les matines
sonnez les matines
ding ding ****
ding ding ****

                 it's a burning memory... like watching
Cartoon Network... when it was... good...
i don't believe in a fame of the living...
the dead are proper dealers in this concept...
fame... how people strive for fame...
whether through good or through ill done against
others... because fame doesn't escape
the muddling of good & evil...
the fame and the infamy...

i was broken yesterday... i know how much i ****
off women's football but i still ended up watching
England play... who did they play?
never mind... they won...
i was going to watch the Sweden vs. Belgium match...
but i thought... if i had a hairdresser appointment
at 8am tomorrow... i need to be asleep by 12am...
go get up at 7am and shower and blah blah...
then i have to go to the Turk to get my beard
and moustache trimmed...
but i'm still not watching football...
i'm watching Tom-Boys with long socks
and hair dangling pretend something...
sure... there's some green of a football pitch...
but i'm not watching the football...
weird... when i watch female athletics or female
tennis i'm watching athletics and tennis...
   for whatever my opinions i have:
i'll watch... what the hell...
at least it's more interesting than some ******
Hollywood movie based on a comic...
or an overtly existential meditation that came
too many years too late: since we covered the outpouring
of Bergman...

now...

    there's the thief... the burglar and the opportunist....
there's this Slavic motto:
znaleziony nie skradziony...
found not stolen...
i operate this maxim...
when it comes to money...
i have found a £20 banknote on the street one...
i have £10 banknotes once or twice...
i've found pounds... i've also found pennies...
would i be stupid enough to find such devaluating /
evaluating / re-evaluating "things"
(money, that's another "thing" in my gallery
of "things" that i can't place... justly...
Nietzsche was attempting to write
his magnum opus: the trans-valuation
of values before going south of cuckoos...
money is one "thing": am actual "thing" is another...
i find a £20 banknote? i'm keeping it...
found / lost ergo not stolen...
the principle of luck...
i could have spared the man the agony of
crafting ideas about a simple answer to his question
about trans-valuation... money! no ditto!)

i've been a thief before... i managed to steal a compact
disk record from a shop...
Queens of the Stone Age's song for the deaf...
i was sly... but this was different...
i was tired from cycling... i bought a bottle of whiskey
and a bottle of Lukozade... berry: ******* merry...
at the self-service outlet... ooh... what's this?
someone left the newest version of
either a Samsung or an Apple smartphone...
is it at 10.3 or whatever the hell it is at?
lucky me... i need a new phone...
so i grabbed it... it was just lying there...
packed my rucksack...

well... i didn't steal it! it was just lying there!
but i don't need a new smartphone...
i just don't want the one i own to **** up on me...
i honestly don't remember the last time i topped up...
i have £0.75 on my account and i'm still using it...
each peddling started to weigh down on me:
if it was money i wouldn't have cared...
if i found money: like i sometimes found money
i wouldn't give two fivers-worth-of-***** for
anyone who lost them: the idea behind money
is that it's transactional...
they taught us the wrong lessons in school,
e.g.: what would you do if you found a briefcase
of money on a street? was it bribery money?
was it ransom money? it's ******* money...
might as well be leaves of a tree come autumn...
money? i'm ******* keeping it..
no morals... no: no nien niet nie!

but here i am with this... £1000+ smartphone...
i ****** it... start cycling home....
i get this numbing headache without an ache...
i remember the time a former "fwend" of mine went to court over
a stolen phone...
how i helped him but he didn't help himself
therefore didn't help me...
what prompted me?
the phone started ringing...
  
who was calling? "mommy"...
hell... if it read "mom" i'd be like... *******... ******...
so much for your spontaneous lapse into
pretend Alzheimer's... imitation amnesia...
but the calling card: "mommy" got to me...
i actually don't want a new phone...
i don't actually need a new phone...
i just need the one i have to work...
mind you... money never talks:
money always listens...
i have no scrupules over money:
                      money lies on the streets all the time:
sure... most of the time they're pennies...
but sometimes... if you're humble to pick but one...
lottery-luck... you might find a pound...
or a tenner... or a twenty...
but... "mummy" is calling...
i was like: if it read: "mum"... i'd be like... lazy ***...
leaving his / her phone on the self-service station...
my gain... your loss...
"mummy"... "mommy" kept ringing...
i was already at the end of Oakland Avenue
trying to figure out how to turn off the phone
and get the SIM card out so i wouldn't be tracked...

i don't need this... however much i was tempted...
i was tempted...
but then the dawn of something akin to reason
came to the lightness of my mind...
better i return this find...
it's not gold...
and "mommy" is calling... so... it wasn't an idiot
that just left this £1000+ item in a supermarket...
as the sayings go:

myśl dobrze mów dobrze rób dobrze (a) będzie dobrze..
on Oaklands Avenue i had that "moment":
after seeing the person calling me on a found /
not a stolen phone... "mummy" is calling me...
if it simply read as "mum"... i'd be like:
well, too bad... Alzheimer prone:
spontaneous memory idiot...
this phone is mine...
          i didn't steal it: i just found it... but then something
kicked in... a headache without a headache...

I'M NOT GOING TO DO THE FOLLOWING
BECAUSE IT'S RIGHT... some absolute GOOD vs. EVIL...
i'm going to do this because i want to FEEL...
goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooood...
like glue mixed up with goo...
because that's the focus of reality...
Abel's revenge...
on the vegetarian: moral-posturing Cain...

i can't put a kid through this... the parents will probably
grill... it turns out she was 7 years old...
her for losing her phone / a mini-computer
on a self-service counter in a supermarket...

i had second thoughts: i like second thoughts...
thought that read: not because it's RIGHT...
something selfish... animating the ancient strives...
i want to feel good...
like the mantra already stated:

myśl dobrze mów dobrze rób dobrze (a) będzie dobrze...
(think good speak good do good and
maybe all will turn out good)

as i was turning the lost property in... i already received
several phone-calls from "mommy" / "mummy"...
i think that stealing this phone would have felt
much more thrilling than simply finding it...

so me and this police-officer start talking...
found this phone... yeah... 10 minutes ago...
where is the phone / where is the "mummy"? she's on
her way...
           any details? so she can say thank you?
you think i got a thank you?
i received no thank you... oh: glory to the inhibited
nature of man concerning what's good in this world...
i didn't want to be thanked: thankfully i wasn't thanked...
i could have easily ****** off with the phone:
insurance probably paid for such circumstanes...

but this is why Cain slaughtered Abel...
people are naive... i'm thinkiing:
the gods were probably just as naive: if not more...
i think the gods were naive:
me? i just tested being exceptional...
but if it was money? oh: like ****...
no chance... money is money...
money is both stone, both tree,
both a heart-transplant...
i find money... i'm keeping it...
                i have no morality concerning money...
but when a...
what sort of parent... gives authority of ownership...
of something worth over £1000 to a prepubescent
girl?! and expects not to "forget" once in a while?
is that authority and worthiness building works?
you need, strangers, to ask themselves moral
questions!
          i didn't have to ask the said moral questions:
i could have profited outright from
this scenario!

        but i asked them: regardless!
because? i wanted to feel good rather than feel lucky:
lucky on the basis of "theft"...

it's highly uneconomic to mix fizzy drinks with whiskey
coming from a plastic bottle than coming from
a can...
better, better still?
leave the already opened bottle of pepsi in
the sun... and each time you unscrew it...
after filling up... shake the bottle up...
to keep the fizziness in it...

i wish i were more evil that my inherent ontology
disavows me from being...
then again... burp... ****... 30 minutes down the lines...
i do visit strip clubs and brothels...
so... i'm sort of like...
                i'm already what's best reserved
and at the same time: what's best kept hidden...
what's to be explored:
by those not willing to explore to begin with.
King Panda Feb 2016
the good book says
one to tame
another to handle the whip
and groan at the horses
as they pull the
freedom carriage

freedom from what?

freedom from fields
of wheat and grass
freedom from
dirt and potatoes
freedom from the
bite of the whip
in the sweltering
Georgia pits

lord
this good book isn’t
very good at all
these horses can pull their own
but I am weak
tamed
invisible
I am a pipe cleaner
bent over and over
until it snaps
to quote
I don’t want to live on
this planet anymore
I don’t want to live at all

this is the sun breaking through
this is the vain bee trying to pollinate
this is my rose under glass

quake if you must
earth
I have been shattered already
Algernon Mar 2014
a frying pan full of potatoes
and one glass of tea
because you've only one mug.
complaining about my cold feet
while pulling me closer.
taking an hour to find a parking spot
in a city made of streets.
letting go of your hand the minute we arrive
picking it up again when we leave.
I almost called you by her name once
but I bit my tongue and swallowed her name down
with a glass of water twice a day or as needed
F White Nov 2014
Drove my sleepy heart...

Today, all I could give you was coffee

but you've already got more than that,

when you're ready to wake up.
copyright FHW, 2014

Author's Note: he never did. Unfortunately.
Sofia Von Jan 2014
Nothings how it looks in fact, maybe the opposite
People say I'm energetic
When I'm fighting for consciousness
Downed NyQuil to solve my imperfections
Took Benadryl to sleep
Drugs make chatter over the back and forth banter of boredom
And action
A trip to the hospital
Affects the people to care for a minute
Hallucinogens fade, but this music it stays
No 3G left **** it lets sing
Words slurred
eyes red
I don't give a ****, spread love
Acceptance
And tears of joy
The ones that run over the face of a baby boy
Mama's proud
Baby you're so smart!
You're gonna be so successful!
Yeah I remember those days
Now its nicotine sticks on my lips and E's for my mom to brag about
They think I'm lost
Am I?
Testing to be done
Society approved pills to pop
And a letter from my aunt
Words spread like dye in water
I've dropped
Down from the heaven of the early years
Lucifer can maneuver his way around the city unnoticed
A spy who tells lies to himself and greets the people as equal
Human again
I'd like to be

All I want to do is live!
But a life's money, family, and a plan
Floaters get flushed
Couch potatoes get crushed
Lazy *****
Ha
They just get fat
Like these joints everybody wants to roll
**** is for beginners but what happens to the pros?
No trophy for the taking
No stack of gold
Just a massive headache
And dependence
Diet coke doesn't count

My sis puts her heart on her sleeve
Me
I don't even think I have one
No wait it's up my ***
**** me good **** me long
That only love is what turns me on
If not
Keep out
Of my head
Or
Switch, light
Too ******* bright to illuminate
these white walls I'm hired to paint
24hrs, 365 days a year, until the day it’s complete
Avoidance
Births time from time

Cuts wrists to elbow
Show how mellow
I can be
Let me cope
Every days a new day
Born today die tomorrow
Next day
Wake up
Look in the mirror and decide
what you'd like to see
jimmy tee Jan 2014
the rain never ended yesterday
the thick ice that covered the world
was obstinate and refused to melt
on any condition but its own
the ingredients were on hand
in pantry, kitchen and desire
for Peanut Soup Senegalese
but melancholy was as  stubborn
as the ice out doors

three sweet potatoes peeled and chopped
one onion peeled and chopped
one can diced tomatoes with liquid
one and a half cup crunchy peanut butter
half teaspoon cumin, cinnamon, allspice, salt, black pepper
three tablespoons olive oil
water
desire

over medium heat roast the spices in the olive oil
add onion and stir to coat; cook a couple of minutes
add sweet potatoes, tomatoes, salt and pepper
add water to barely cover
bring to soft boil and simmer for forty five minutes
or until potatoes are soft
remove from heat and let cool  for ten minutes
with a hand blender, blend until smooth [careful]
add peanut butter, blend by hand until smooth
simmer over low heat for fifteen minutes
serve

recognize that the melancholy of the day still persists
but is much more flavorful
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
.a woman's place is not in the kitchen... **** right! about time someone made that observation, the times i've eaten under-cooked baby potatoes and over-cooked pasta? i'm actually ******* surprised that the kitchen was ever intended for a place for women... what the **** are women doing in kitchens? given, that their offspring don't know where milk comes from... or how peanuts grow... huh?

somewhere between eric dolphy
and frank o'hara:
    in terms of lunch...
            i have to gloat over this one...
it was... simply... pristine...

                   women do not belong
in the kitchen the more i'm supposed
to belong dangling off a ceiling of
a cavern emple for bats -
men don't want women in
the kitchen...
  i don't like the idea of a woman cooking...
women can't cook...
          well, for the majority...
   what's this? fast meals,
     junk restaurants -
i'm about to eat something that's
equivalent to me having ******* it out?
sorry... no...

not when i tell what i had for lunch...
iceberg salad,
carrot,
   pepper,
mild green chilli,
         em... ****...
    turkish goat's cheese -
a pear, a ******* FIG (skin intact),
    schwarzforst prosciutto -
chilli infused ****** olive oil,
balsamic vinegar...
        
women, do not, belong,
in, the kitchen...
              a kitchen is no harem...
where... i believe...
Sappho escaped from...
                  but fair enough:
nudge budge: bear a grudge... ha ha...
it's like this teasing contest i had
on my way back from an off-lice
at quarter to 11 one night...
a boyfriend,
    a scaffold(er) and his girlfriend,
drunk, d'uh...
  joking about her height...
this: smurf -

                       we laughed
she was evidently ******* -
but in a way that we could have cuddled
and kissed falling
      acorn leaves in autumn
to imply a next annum of revival...

  but **** me, what a trinity -
a FIG a pear, (a) goat's cheese -
   and that balsamic vinegar
transcendence medium of sweet contra
sour?
        
  oh wait... that was sexist?
             fine, enjoy the microwave
    spaghetti and cheese -
      like some diabolical version
of an electric ballerina twirling -
        
   i have the neo-**** gig covered too...
don't mind, being a *******
****** and all,
   having talked to my great-grandmother
about her experiences on the Eastern Front...
giving my grandmother opiates so
she wouldn't cry and become a beacon
for the Wehrmacht...

            don't worry... i'm supplied
in neo-**** music...
just in case...
   oh lookie look over 'ere...
that song -
   feindflug's größenwahn:
bought the album about a year ago
for £15... now? it's worth £40+...
                     never mind wumpscut:
               i like the fact that there is
such a position of interests that
confiscates a magnetism of
eclectic tastes...
        and please...
   the only reason you would have your
toddler and subsequent child
to listen to classical music is
not an I.Q. resonance -
   it won't make them smarter,
fat chance in anorexic hell -
         hell, let them listen to classical
music, but entrenching their I.Q. is
not the main byproduct...
    how many people, do you know...
who have lost interest in music?
   i know a few...
   some people really, really do lose interest
in music...
                by the time when they've been
fed classical music,
   been exposed to pop, perhaps even
rock...
   and never reached the antithesis of
classical music, namely jazz...
subsequently having the zenith of
having read a Jane Austen novel...
but not a Mary Shelley -
      and not divulged into espresso quick-step
******* jargon of
poetry contra performance, bloated vocals -
and that... annoying,
generic voice, apparent throughout
the spectrum of all vocal performers -
that asthmatic quasi-exasperation
   performance...
                    
true: i could perform...
   drinking got in the way...
the prime vice...
   secondary vice?
       cooking...
              
true though...
   women don't belong in the kitchen...
what sort of man would
allow a woman in the kitchen?
   i've tasted undercooked potatoes
and overcooked pasta...
   let's just say...
  we're not on friendly talking terms.
Mitchell May 2014
We took the back road to the house. The shade from the trees made the road feel like tunnel. Not a shred of light came in. We'd have to drive slow. The road wasn't made of concrete: it was made of dirt, rock, and dead leaves. Sometimes we could see the worms come up out of the dirt in the headlights, their pink stretching bodies like weird little fingers. Carrie never looked. She said it was too scary. The rest of us would look and watch them dance around like that. Sometimes we'd have to run them over. Of course, we'd feel bad about it, but we needed to get back to the house. There were things to be done. Nothing planned, but nonetheless, things to be done.
Englend reversed the car up to the front door. The liquor, the food, and the beer was in the back and would make it easier to get it from there. Patty and Carrie (the one scared of the worms) ran straight to the bathroom. They'd been complaining about how we never stopped at a gas station to ***. Englend said we didn't have the time and I just didn't care. Denny was in the same mindset as me. We usually were. Kat was looking out the window, thinking about something she didn't wish to share when we started to unload. She offered to help after she'd finished her thought, but the three of us said we had it. We didn't really, but we let her have her thought while we carried the bags. There weren't that many to complain about anyway.
When everyone was inside unpacking their things, I hung back and smoked a cigarette. I looked down at the river. It was full and rushing. The trees were full with bright, lime green leaves. The branches were tanned auburn from the sun. They looked the forearms of the Mexican girls at my high school: smooth, everlasting, stretching to a place I was never allowed to touch or look at. I ashed my cigarette into a pile of leaves and immediately worried that I was going to start a fire. I kicked it out, thrusting my boot heel into where I thought the ember had went.
"What the hell are you doing?" Englend screamed from the front porch, a handle of whiskey underneath his arm, a glass with ice in the other.
"Ashed into the leaves," I told him, "Trying to take it out." I kicked the leaves a few more times, then walked towards Englend.
"Let me get a hit of that," I said, pointing at the handle.
He spun the top and it rolled off the tread. The cap rolled off the deck and Englend chased after it, handing me the bottle first.
"Take this. Where'd the hell it go?"
"Down there somewhere," I said, pulling the bottle back. The sweetness of the whiskey hit my nostrils first, then the bite of the liquor. I coughed, feeling my eyes begin to water. The first one was always the hardest. After that, they got easier.
June had just ended. July was just arriving. The third was tomorrow and the next day was the fourth.
I took another pull from the handle. I placed on the decks railing and left Englend with it. He was still looking around for the bottle cap.
"I thought I saw it roll under the deck," I told him.
"*******," he moaned. He looked up at me, "Come and help me. It'll be faster with two."
"Can't. Gotta' check on Carrie and get ourselves a room."
"*******," he moaned again, reaching under the deck.
"Don't get your hand bit by a possum or rat or something!" I yelled behind me, going inside. "Carrie!" I screamed, "Where'd you go?"
"Upstairs getting our room ready!" I heard her scream from the 2nd floor, "Come and help me put the sheets on."
I went into the kitchen. Denny was stocking the fridge with the beer and the meat. I reached over his shoulder and grabbed a Budweiser. He had an open one in between his knees. The light stuff was on the bottom to the far left, the heavy stuff in the middle, and the expensive IPA, hoppy stuff to the far right. The top shelf was for food, mixer, and whatever else the girls had decided to get at the store. Fruit and things. I opened up the freezer. There were two handles of Smirnoff resting on three large bags of ice. We would need more ice. I closed the freezer and ran my fingers of the labels of two more handles of Cazadorés tequila and Bulleit bourbon. Overall, I thought we were fairly stocked for the four day weekend, but one could never be to sure. People came out of the wood work for the 4th of July. No telling who would show up at our front door.
I went upstairs to see what Carrie was doing. She was laying on the bed with the sheets resting on the dresser. The light was off. The room was cast in that light grey pigment that happens when the bedroom light isn't there. It was nice. The sun had been straining my eyes the whole time even though I had been driving in the backseat. Carrie was laying face down on the bed. She was wearing a skirt, so I slowly laid down on the bed and inched her dress up. She didn't flinch or move, so I pulled it up until I saw her burgundy lace *******. They looked pressed or ironed or something they looked so clean.
"What're you doing?" Carrie asked me, her face down into the mattress.
"Just looking," I said.
"At what?"
"At your ****."
"Why?"
"Cause' it's nice."
"Close the door."
I got up, closed the door, and laid back down.
"Lets put the sheets on the bed first."
"OK," I said.
We put the sheets on the bed, but couldn't wait for the pillows and the rest of the blankets. We tried to be quiet, but knew we weren't. After, we took a shower together. I rubbed Carrie's shoulders while the hot water rained down on us. She said it was better to get a massage in the shower because the hot water loosened up the muscles. I didn't know if that was true or not, but I did it anyway. I watched her as she unpacked her bag. Her hair was wet and it swung back and forth, wetting her back. She was wrapped in her favorite pink towel. Water dripped from her body down to the floor. I waited to put my things away. I had brought up very little. Mostly *****. Carrie took up most of the dresser. I had one drawer by the time we were finished.
We took a nap. After we were done sleeping, we looked outside and saw the sun had been replaced with the night. The stars and the light coming from inside of the cabin streaked out into the forest like a splash of golden florescent paint. Carrie and I poked our heads outside to listen to the creaking trees and the rustling of animals through the bush. Someone downstairs was lightly clattering dishes as they cleaned them while the smell of red maple firewood burning in the fireplace came up to our room. I took out my phone from my pocket and looked at the time.
"****," I said, "It's already 10 o'clock."
"I'm starving."
"I'm starving and need a drink."
"Let's go downstairs and see what they made."
I slipped on my 501's while Carrie straightened up her hair. We went downstairs and saw two plates with hamburgers and fries on them. Patty was at the sink cleaning the pots and pans. She was staring down into the soapy froth, humming a song to herself I couldn't understand. She hadn't heard us come down. Denny, Englend, and Kat weren't in the living room.
"Where is everybody?" I asked.
"Oh!" Patty burst. She swung around, a soaped up frying pan in her hands. "You scared the **** out of me!"
I put my hands up, "Gotcha!" I said smiling.
"They went for a walk somewhere and left all the dishes for me."
"Leave'em," Carrie said, taking Patty's hands and wiping the soap away with a rag, "Van and I will take care of them."
"I only have a few more..."
"I insist!" Carrie took Patty's arm and lead her to the couch and laid her down. I took a cup from the pantry, filled it with ice, and poured Bulliet half-way up. I handed the glass to Carrie and she brought it to Patty.
"Look at that," Patty smiled, "Full-service."
"What you get when you come up to the Dangerson cabin."
"**** right!" I exclaimed through a bite of hamburger, "Only the best here."
Patty leaned her head back after taking a long sip of the whiskey. She exhaled and closed her eyes. I watched her as her chest heaved up and down. She kicked off her shoes and let her hair fall over the armrest of the couch.
"You said they went into the woods, Patty?"
Carrie took her burger and went and sat next to Patty.
"Lift your legs up," Carrie said, "Let me sit with you."
"Yeah. They went into the woods an hour or so ago. Probably a little less."
I opened the fridge and grabbed another beer.
"What were they going out there for?"
"I have no idea."
"Probably to get firewood or something," Carrie said, "Can you grab me one of those."
"Sure," I said, tossing her one.
"Wait," She yelled, throwing her hands in the air. The beer landed right in one of her flailing hands.
"Nice catch," I laughed, opening the fridge and grabbing another.
"You're such a ****!"
I smiled and walked out onto the deck.
"He really is," I heard Carrie tell Patty.
"I heard that!"
"You were meant to!" she called back to me, laughing.
I shook my head and opened the can of beer. Why did they decide to go get firewood now? We had plenty of wood here already. Patty probably didn't know what she was talking about. That happened often. I strained my eyes to see through the darkness, maybe see if I could spot a flashlight or the round end of a lit cigarette, but the forest was just a wash of thick blackness. Even the stars had grown faint.
"Englend!" I shouted.
Nothing. Not a peep. They were far out there.
"Englend!" I shouted again.
"What the hell are you shouting at?" a voice said from the trees. I couldn't tell who it was, but it was someone I knew.
"Who the hell is that?"
"Well who the hell do you think it is?" It was Englend. He came out of the trees like a wild boar. He had a handle of whiskey in one hand with a pile of small twigs and firewood in the other. What came to mind first was a mix between a drunken Brawny guy and a pinecone.
"What's all the screaming about?" Kat asked, trailing behind Englend. Denny followed behind. They all had armfuls of wood. From what I saw, little would be useful, but I kept that to myself.
Englend came up the deck and handed me the handle. I took a long pull. As I drank, I looked up into the stars, which were now out and shining brighter than they were before. A cloud had moved, wavered off somewhere, presenting the gifts that were behind it. I lowered the bottle and watched Denny and Kat walk up the stairs. They were smiling.
"What are you two so happy about?" I asked, handing Denny the whiskey.
"Gimme' that!" Kat snagged it out of my hand, laughing. She took a long pull. Denny, Englend, and I watched, amazed that little hippy Kat could take such a heavy shot.
"Good God," I murmured.
"She drinks like a pirate," said Denny.
"A ****** pirate," added Englend.
Kat was especially small. Not a small person small, but petite. She also had a great *** and could out drink, out party, and out do the rest of us in debaucherous shenanigans. She had never heard of the word or feeling of shame either and did, really, whatever the hell she felt like.
"I heard that you *******," she said, exhaling, blinking her eyes wildly.
"That was a biggun'," Denny said, taking the bottle and pulling it.
"Needed it. Englend had us wandering around the ******* forest for firewood the minute we got here."
"Do we even need any?" I asked.
"Course we do!" Englend exclaimed, "Gotta' keep our ladies warm!"
He put his arm around Kat and shook her.
"Gross..." Kat frowned, her face pickling while she squirmed out of his arms.
"You love it Kat...where's Patty? Where's my babe!?" Englend thundered off into the house.
"I'm right here," Patty squealed. She was still on the couch with Carrie. She kicked her feet crazily as Englend jumped on her. Carrie jumped off just before he cannon balled onto the couch.
"You guys are SICK!" Carrie screamed.
"You love it," they both said in unison. The two of them play wrestled until Patty finally got Englend by the ***** and kissed him.
Denny handed Kat the bottle," You want another?" he asked.
"I'm good, Denny," she said.
"Hank?" He asked me.
"I'll take one, yeah," I said. I pulled it back as Kat went inside. I exhaled and looked at Denny, "So, you and Kat are the only two legitimate single people here. How you feel about that?"
"Hopeful," he said.
"That's good to hear. I'll see what Carrie can do."
"Sweet," he said nervously.
"Let's get inside. Patty made some burgers."
"Thank God," Denny sighed, shaking his head, "I'm ******* starving. Englend had us walking for ******' miles.
"No idea why. We have plenty of wood downstairs."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. Lots of it. I cut a bunch the last time I was here."
"******," he laughed, "Englend told us were out."
"He doesn't know what he's talking about," I said. We walked into the kitchen. I put the bottle down next to Carrie, who had made her way from the couch back into the kitchen. She looked at the bottle, then at me.
"What you drinking there?" she asked me looking at the bottle.
"Whiskey," I told her.
"Can you not drink so much?" she whispered so no one could hear her.
"I'm good," I said, taking her hand, "I just drank a little bit outside while I was waiting for Englend. They went on a wild goose chase for firewood."
"Good."
"Denny was telling me they went all over for the stuff."
"Why?" she smiled, "We have so much from the last time we were up."
"That's what I was telling Englend, but he didn't care. Guy gets antsy."
"Who's antsy?" Englend called from the couch. Patty was wrapped up in his eyes, looking drunk from the single shot Carrie and I had given her. Kat was on the couch with a beer. Denny was hovering by the door, rocking back and forth on his heels still holding an armful of fire wood.
"Why don't you just leave that by the door?" I told Denny, "Take a seat. Stay a while."
He dropped the firewood by the side of the front door and took a seat on the floor in front of the fireplace by Kat. He looked up at her and smiled, but she didn't notice. She was sipping her beer, rummaging around in her pocket for something.
"What I was saying was that you guys didn't need to get anymore firewood or kindling or whatever the hell you guys got because we have a lot from the last time Carrie and I were up."
"I saw those logs," said Englend, "And they're ******* twigs compared to what we got!"
Everyone laughed.
"Well," I said, opening the fridge for another beer (I wasn't sure where my other one had gone to), "I'm not taking the **** down."
"All good, we'll take it down."
"You'll take it down," said Kat, "We had to walk through half of the ******* forest to get to your secret wood spot, then walk back. I'm finished with wood for now."
"Fine," Englend moaned, "I'll take it down in the morning."
"I'll help you," Denny added.
"Good! We got two big guys to do it. It'll be done in no time."
I turned around and opened up the cabinet that was filled with shot glasses. I took six out, put them on the table, and filled them with whiskey.
"Let's take a group shot before we all start getting snuggly and sleepy."
"Great idea!" Englend shouted, popping up from the couch.
"For America!" Patty giggled, following Englend.
Kat helped Denny from the floor and walked over to the counter. They parted hands when Denny was on his feet, but I could tell he wouldn't mind holding her hand for the duration of the trip.
"I'm glad to have you all here," I said, "Glad we could do this."
Everyone nodded, smiling, holding their golden brown shots in the air.
"For America," I said.
"For America!" the rest of them yelled. We soaked in the glory of fine whiskey and hazy conversation for the rest of the night.
Everyone was moving slow in the morning. Englend seemed to be the most up out of everyone. I walked into the kitchen to him whipping 12 eggs, grating cheese, pan frying potatoes, bubbling coffee, and pouring orange juice into mimosa flutes. The champagne was already out. I thought, a little alcohol will probably do me some good. It did. After my third glass, I kissed Carrie when she groggily walked into the living room. She preceded to slump onto the couch. I brought her a cup coffee and some Advil. She smiled meekly into my glazed over, blood shot eyes. I could tell she was hurting, but she would be right in a couple hours. Once we got into the river, all would be right.
"Jesus," said Carrie, "You guys are already drinking?"
"Of course!" Englend laughed, "It's the fourth and it's already noon. We're behind if anything."
"And Englend made breakfast," I said.
"I can see th
Ron Tranmer Nov 2011
The table is set for our thanksgiving feast
and all have taken their place
The meal of the year, is finally here,
and oh, how great it will taste..

Potatoes and gravy and cranberry sauce,
and rolls that are made fresh and hot.
Turkey with stuffing, right out of the oven.
Pumpkin  pie that hasn’t been bought.

Our family is anxiously gathered around
in a circle of love hand in hand.
A scene reminiscent of thanksgivings past.
A tradition we all understand.

Dad offers a prayer of thanksgiving to God
for abundance of blessings we share.
Tears touch his cheeks as he humbly gives thanks
for much more than the food that is there.

Though stomachs are empty, each heart is full
while united as family we pray,
Thanking dear God for His wonderful love,
and our blessings this Thanksgiving Day.

When this day is gone and life carries on,
may gratitude live on in me.
Lord help me, I pray, to make every day
a day of thanksgiving to Thee.
Pea Jun 2016
xvi. where do you go when your house isn't home?

i ******* crawl out of my body, swim infinite miles of the ocean, stretch my neck to the skies, replace my head with the moon. i ******* yearn for your presence, try to break the mirror with my weak stare, can't go further, fitting room doesn't fit whatsoever, all the buttons escape from my ***** and hair falls like tiny dandelions in a rainstorm.
i grow potatoes in my mouth, when i speak i smell of my root, when i am on my period i talk about stomachache at dinner table, when i search for space my tummy is the balloons at pingkan's 8th birthday party which i couldn't bring home. blow the candles i forgot to make a wish for a moment the fate seems seamless, bright red lipstick, brown mascara, outfits i can't ever wear to school, or to be honest, not anywhere because when i try to walk, every step is a ******* hysterical cry, when i use my toes every cell in my body violently shakes.
my house isn't home. my house isn't home. my house isn't home. my house isn't home. my house isn't home how do you know that? how did you barge into my clichés? how dare you claim something that even i won't bring myself to think about?
i ******* crawl out of my body, not as soon as possible, i do it right now, right ******* now so i know the years i've spent trying to nourish the flesh i don't really own are worthless, the years i've devoted myself to my worldly lover are the ones that have been consuming my tiny soul, if you ask me now of course no one is satisfied, no one is satisfied until i don't want to call you mine anymore.
i ******* crawl out of my body.
in a desperate attempt to make the hideous pleasing to watch, i sell blindfolds on the street, i light the matches in the rain, i dream of dead grandmother and christmas feast. i turn into a cold statue, i left the tenderness for stupid microorganisms, my divorced bones blame me for everything i did not do. i used to do the right things now i just do nothing, it's ******* useless anyway, i can blink five thousand times and still believe that time is what the clocks and calendars say. (my grandmother was a buddhist.)
i ******* crawl out of my body. i don't want to experience this anymore, i am not into this kind of thing, i long for your presence, all i've got from this building is an infinite count of absences. my body is a building, it has no level, no room, no door, no window, no furniture. my body a giant concrete boring box, i do not even live there anymore, nobody lives there anymore, they are all gone to a poppy field in the middle of nowhere (actually somewhere, only that i am not invited). i ******* crawl out of my body, did that answer your question?
i ******* crawl. out. of. it.
with all due respect, please just kindly shut the **** up
John F McCullagh Jun 2014
I can recall a simpler time
when just spelling was the problem.
But now D.C. has doubled down
and is really scraping bottom.

What did the humble Potato do
To draw Pelosi’s ire.?
Why are white potatoes banned
From school lunches I inquire?

Sweet Potatoes are welcome still
on school kids’ lunchtime plates.
But Idaho’s may not be served-
That makes Michelle irate.

Baked, mashed or fried There’s good inside
the humble white potato.
Potatoes of color are welcome too
upon my dinner table.

The Tuber is a starchy treat
with vitamins and fiber.
Whatever will the Irish eat
If you toss it in the Tiber?
( The Tiber mentioned here is a tributary of the Potomac river in Washington D.C.) Republican Reps from Idaho are attempting to reverse a proposed ban on white potatoes  from the school lunch program.
Indian Phoenix Oct 2012
I hated Dawkins a little less when his words came from your mouth.

Your unabashed sincerity endeared me to you from the moment you showed me your vintage Atari. I don't recall if that was before or after you bragged about your Star Trek DVDs. Not that it matters, but I hope you've found a place to store all of those wires protruding out of your gadgets like Medusa's head of snakes.

My family liked you, especially my mother. It was probably your staunch advocacy of 4th amendment rights.

Remember those nights we sat in bed and traded secrets on small scraps of paper? We were lovers  for... five weeks by then? It struck me by the third slip that it didn't matter what it would say--I knew I'd still love you anyway. But I knew that from the moment you removed my knee-high boots and kissed my feet when I rode up on my Harley. You unstrapped my helmet and poured me wine. Though we promised to never tell anyone, I just wanted to say: I still smile when I think of your 15-year-old self trying to pick up a ******* on a desolate dusty road. Do you still have those hastily-written pieces of paper? They're yours to keep; I hope they're safe.

Nothing of my new world reminds me of you. There's no Jeopardy to watch, no NPR to hear in your white Saturn, and no desert mountains to hike. Not in India. Maybe it's because nothing is similar that my memories of us stay so firmly imprinted in my mind. Similarities would only erode my recollections. Maybe that's why I almost forgot about the chai tea I'd serve you in bed, coupled with almonds and apricots on the saucer.

But you, you're a walking encyclopedia of my home town. You knew every cactus-lined freeway, the name of the state attorney general, and the best place to grab a Four Peaks beer. Because of this, I could never extricate my love of home and my love for you. To me, you'll always be home.

For better or for worse, I remember it all. Including the soft piano rift of the chess game we'd play on your XBox. I'm guessing you'd beat me, should we play again today. I still have the wooden chess set I got you for your birthday... but we both know I can't give it to you. I'm sorry.

I never believed in saving people before I met you. Before, damaged was a weakness; now I think you just needed a polish. I never told you, but I read your psych evaluation--I found it when I was cleaning your room (with your permission, I add). The therapist was right: you're not aloof, just too smart for the room. I thank God that you never bought that container of nitric oxide.

I know we said we'd marry if I ever came back home. A no-frills city hall marriage suited us just fine. I have no doubt we would have had a simple, sweet life. You would've relented to letting me get a dog to keep your arrogant cat company. Our biggest fight would be over which castle door the RPG character should open, and you would've helped me improve my golf swing on the inexpensive dilapidated course near my old junior high school.

But likewise... our biggest adventure would've been only a roadtrip to the neighboring county. And I wanted to explore. I needed to explore. You, who never wanted to stray outside of a 100-mile radius could never satiate that curiosity. But I know we could have made it work. I know we would've been happy.

Sometimes I wish we could be the best of friends. I know we can't; not when I started dating my now-husband so close after we ended things in tear-stained emails when I went overseas. He swore off her; I swore off you. That's the way things go, I guess, when you get older.

I know it might seem like I've moved on and forgotten you.

Moved on, yes. Forgotten? Never.

It probably wouldn't be the same if we met again. I have too much love for you that could never be conveyed. My love for you has changed; it's not romantic. But it's still this throbbing appreciation for everything you are. I couldn't bear guarded chit chat. Not with you.

And I hope you are happy. Have you realized your worth yet, or are you still wasting your time with broken high school grads who listen to Ke$ha? I can't tell you who to love... but I hope she's an astrophysicist, someone who loves Carl Sagan even half as much as you. I want her to read Noam Chomsky to you late at night, and wake you in the mornings with a glass of milk and cookies. She'll prefer simple mashed potatoes to dim sum, and have a weakness for microbreweries. She'd be gorgeous in that bookish sort of way. Yes. That's the girl for you.

....I'm sorry it's not me, my dear atheist.
Joe Cole Nov 2014
Took  mother in law to do the weekly shop this morning
Nothing unusual about that
Did mine in 20 minutes
Waited over an hour for Mary but she is 83
Anyway, I love people watching
Going up the aisle, two mature ladies
Blocking the way nattering as ladies do
But what a subject
The menopause!!!!
Now I'm an old man, thought I had heard it all
But boy
Such graphic details when you're buying a pack of lambs liver
Anyway aisle blocked so turned round
In the veg aisle now
Young woman buying loose potatoes
Can't be that difficult
OR CAN IT?
Every single potatoes minutely examined
Every minor blemish checked
Nearly 10 minutes for a few potatoes
WOW, it must take her 4 hours to do her weekly shop

Its great being a man
A leather chair
It's comfy
And the headrest actually fits!
The woman
A nurse of some sort
Explains **** near everything
"This does blaahhh
And that does bluhhhhh
And this other thing does
Blegghhhhh"
Thanks.
Let's just get it over with
Then in comes the dentist
Well
He's an oral surgeon
He tells me his name
And hooks up an IV
And in goes the anesthesia

                    BLACKNESS

A comfy chair
I must be coming to
But in the office?
Then I hear the cat
Ohhhhhh
I'm home
Ok
Cool.
What do you mean?
All I can eat is ice cream?
And mashed potatoes?
Ughh... I wish I was back asleep.
Got my wisdom teeth pulled out today. So that's fun
Anna Martinez Mar 2012
When did Wishes become as commonplace as pennies in Fountains?
When did Unicorns stop dreaming?
In a place where Unicorns can Dream
And Stars are Paths
And Fat Orange Cats are Sullen Irish Dancing Potatoes
With Biscuit Legs and Waterfall Eyes
With an Everything complex
Due to feeling the Absence of all
Whilst having felt an overwhelming Nothing
And Ant ****'s full of Honey and Air
Pirouette and bend their slim Amber eyed head backwards
To see such hopeless Unicorns Dreaming of
Trollops and Almosts who don't know what Mermaids are
Mermaids that only Sing Underwater
And watch Sullen Irish Dancing Potato Boy
With Biscuit Legs and Waterfall Eyes
And an Everything complex
Because Garfield can't figure out
If Fat Orange Cat is okay with loving Selfish Harlot Mermaid
Or not

Maybe we should all just stay Honey-Eyed Harlots
And Hero Twin Flames
Maybe the penny can be a Wish
And the Star's dust pathways
And Unicorns can see black instead of Dreams.
And it would do you much as well
To leave well enough alone.
Corndog08 Sep 2014
Deep in the cupboard,
hiding in the dark,
there silently,
but still,
27 eyes staring,
waiting...waiting,
skin,
damp,
cold,
arms extending,
creeping outwards,
but only slight movement,
as it leans against the wall,
hiding...hiding,
waiting for the time,
to go out,
creeping...creeping,
opening the door,
awaiting its enemy,
hiding from being,
chopped,
boiled,
skinned,
poor...poor,
POTATOE!!!
This poem is made by my friend Jessica Stone.
Lauren Pope Jan 2014
This year I'll bleed for better reasons.

I'll take a tumble after a night of drinking at the bar,
knees skinned and raw because I wasn't used to my heels.
I'll brush it off and let the blood trickle down my legs
as I stumble back home at 2 am.

I'll learn to hold my liquor.

I'll bite my tongue a thousand times and taste copper.
Whether silencing myself for my mother or my professor,
the friend who thinks she's always right. Or the *******
who's screaming sexist jargon.

I'll learn to pick my battles.

I'll cook myself delicious meals and the knife will slip
while I chop shallots and potatoes for my feast built for one.
I'll let my ****** battle wounds season the food and I
won't flinch at the thought of eating another meal alone.

I'll learn to love myself.

I'll pull the knife from my heart and back and wield them
like weapons fit only for my hands. I'll lick the blade clean
and scare anyone who dares try and harm me.

I'll never bleed for you again.
I'll bleed for better reasons.
Glades and Creeks.

One day in a journey far far away,  the forest was speaking to a lone wanderer.
"I am quite the clean forest, am I not?." The forest whispered soothingly.
"Mmhm." Spoke the wanderer, passive by such an interjection.
"Of course. Thousands of forests have wilted and died under the hand of man. I remain lush and brimming to the birch with life."
"Where is my way out of here?" The wanderer asked, becoming quite needy at the thought of having to spend the night in that dung-infested greenhouse.

The forests name was Evergreen. Allot of forests were named Evergreen. This forest had just been sold cheaply to a large logging firm who would come and tear the ugly trees down. The proprietors of that sale was a tribe of Indians. The specific agent who devised and contracted the sale was named Nahiko. An Indian tribesmen who, like his ancestors could speak to the forest.

Indians were what Europeans called people from India and natives of America. Allot of Indians in America were killed for being Indian. When an Indian boy came of age, they would be thrown into a jungle and starve until they saw an animal spirit. This was probably prelude to eating said spirit animal while thanking it for helping him live on.

"I, Evergreen implore you to stay within my womb of plant and fauna."
"Hm." replied the wanderer. Not wanting to argue.
The wanderer took a seat beside a flowing creek on a rock. The creek lead up to waterfall, which in turn lead through a river that spanned for miles. The river did not speak as it was an extension of the forest, Evergreen. Down the creek was the old homes of the Indian tribe.
"Have you ever saved someone else?" The wanderer asked.
"My yes, of course. Everyone who is to enter without water or food is rescued by my charming animals! And luxurious streams. I am quite hospitable you see. There was a tribe who lived within me, they were by name called the Perchil tribe. But they had to leave for more. Hmph. As if anything up in that ****** town is worth more then me."

Further up the river, away from the forest was a town named "Milan". It was named after a kingdom of the same name in Italy. People in Milan spoke German. This was odd given Milan lay in south America, but not unusual given its history of being a port to German slave traders who came from a German colony called "Tanganyika" in Africa. The town was named Milan because the Germans wanted to appear more Italian. This desire was apparent in their most famous dishes "schnitzel Pizza" and "Pasta Salsiccia". Pasta Salsiccia was pasta in a sausage casing often served with tomato sauce and mashed potatoes.

Perchil was also a member of that Indian tribe. He was Nahiko's brother and had a family of his own. Perchil was born in Evergreen and educated in Milan. He had been fighting with Nahiko over the terms of sale of the forest. Nahiko had wanted to preserve the land of old tribe. Perchil was already drawing up plans to sell it to an oil foundry. Their land happened to be on top of a great oil reserve. That means allot of animals lived and died on that land millions or thousands of years ago. There body would dissolve into a black gooey liquid used to fuel heavy machinery. This machinery is used by logging firms to cut down not exclusively, forests named Evergreen.

The wanderer, feeling awkward asked. "So, you'd rather not want to be destroyed?"
"Oh, I am a forest and I do maintain a will of my own and wants. But I cannot rather things should be anything other than what they are. The world is a destructive place. It is disrespectful of its former home and ancestry. I know this. I have tried however, to ward off the workmen by scaring them with my animals. In the end I shall become a town or a shopping mall."
In 3 years time, the deed to "Evergreen plains, Milan" would be sold and used to build a shopping mall named aptly "Evergreen Mall". And the forests voice would be spoke out of loudspeakers, but in the form of either a pre-recorded message or announcement about a lost child. Nahiko and Perchil would be married in Evergreen Mall. Nahiko three times.

"Oh woe is me, I lament my lost brothers and sister forests who are no longer beaming and prideful of their enormous trees and crested riverbanks."
"Maybe they should have defended themselves better." The wanderer spoke, trying unsuccessfully to show concern.
"Well, I for one will never give up fighting the man!"
"Good for you." The wanderer then ate his lunch.

Three days from now, the forest would stop speaking to anyone who arrived within its borders and see the lone wanderer again. But this time, he would be protected by four glass windows inside a piece of machinery powered by black gooey liquid called a "harvester" which lifted up wood and cut it into easily transportable pieces.

"Do you, believe in god wanderer?" The forest asked, to strike up some conversation.
"I do believe in god. He's the reason I get up in the morning and assists me in supporting my family."
"I don't. I don't think I believe in god, wanderer. If he exists, how could he let something so beautiful as I and my brother and sister forests be turned into shopping malls and townships like Milan."
The evergreen forest had seen the name "Milan" as a city nearby on a poster which flew into the twig of its tree. The poster was now lying on smooth ground weighted down by a root, as so the forest can read it over and over again. The poster advertised Pasta Salsiccia at a local restaurant in Milan. It had appetizing pictures of Pizza with crumbed steak on it and Pasta filled Sausages.
"God once flooded the earth, destroying all forests and people for their misgivings. Maybe you misgave and people are your divine punishment."
The forest grew silent and whispered soft hymns of wind against the leaves and overgrown shrubbery.

The edge of the creek, where the wanderer sat on a rock had a hard sand that stretched out a few meters disappeared into the dirt. It was unusual to see a small bed of sand without any other visible placements of sand. The wanderer had been dumping it there, with permission from the forest so he could form a base to store his harvester. The forest did not know of the sands purpose, she thought it looked pretty.
"If I were god, the world would be nothing but forests!" Evergreen stated. The gentle words turning a harsher coarse crackling of branches.
"The world seems to be nothing but people right now. Maybe gods a man."
"Unlikely! If god was a man, he would certainly love forests enough to never cut them down."
"Hm." The wanderer was dissatisfied with this explanation, but didn't want to argue.

"Would you **** anyone who came into your forest, just to prove a point?" The wanderer asked, waiting pensively.
"Oh no, as I said. I cannot change what already is and certainly would not bloom the effort to try. Besides. I also know about those people and their weapons. When it comes to human beings, no matter how hard I fight they will always win. How they ever came to develop boom guns and ratatatat chainsaws I have no idea. If they came from my forest, people would certainly have never developed tools so cruel and menacing. But, I suppose Eden had her way for you. Even if it was, at the cost of all our kind."
"Yeah. No matter forest or person, people always win. I'll always be below some rich powerful man too." The wanderer felt melancholy for feeling unimportant. The forest felt the same melancholy for her life and the world.

Suddenly and finally, a noise came from the wanderers pants. He then picked out his phone, clicked it and took it to his ear. After two hours, the wanderer walked east and out of Evergreen forest. He visited her three days later in his noisy harvester. made to cut wood. He parked on his sand bed. The wanderer left his harvester and locked the door without a word. Evergreen forest was properly harvested of its trees in 3 years time. Never uttering a word or complaint. The painted marking on the harvester she saw everyday however, was her last thought as she disappeared. The word painted onto the door of the harvester, its operator. "Perchil."
I wrote this a while ago, it's my first short story. Tell me if you like it. And maybe, beseech me. Whatever. I dunno. BE GENTLE!!!
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2018
EᔕᔕᕼI
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The kitchen's air is redolent with spices,
peppers and cinnamon, all-spice and star
anise, thyme and curry. The cooks are
shouting orders; taking rose-silver pots
and copper pans; each having the print
of the Lily of Aurelinaea; from the wooden
shelves, plates and bowls from the cup-
boards; some are stirring soups over
coal-fire stoves; others are dicing carrots,
potatoes, fresh poultry and more.

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Esshi, in a light-green off-the-shoulder
dress of rose-silk with a triple ruffle trim,
lined with yellow ribbon, a thigh high slit and
white lilies beadery, is speaking to the head-chef
who nods. "Certainly, Lady Esshi." he says
and turns to his busy staff. "Bring out
the paella pans! We have orders for the
Queen Mother!"
"Yes, chef!" a woman says as she pulls
out a rose-silver paella pan and places
it on the stove. The head-chef turns to
Esshi. "You need not worry, Lady Esshi,"
he smiles. "I will make the dishes with
care."

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"You always do, Bael," Esshi chuckles as
he washes his hands and she walks to
the corner, sighing. 'My Lady...'
she thinks worried.
"Lady Esshi?" her thoughts are broken
by a woman's voice. She turns to see a  
florist behind her. 'So lost in thought,
that I did not hear the door open.'

She thinks as her eyes fall on the flower
vase.

~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The vase is art noveau style; a deep emerald
green with a maiden in flowing silks, her
hair bejewelled with lilies. Esshi's eyes then
rise to look at the flower arrangement - white
lilies with lilac kisses, purple roses and
several stems of lavender.
"Lady Ainhara said I should bring this to you."
"It's lovely," Esshi sniffs the fresh flowers.
"Very beautiful! You certainly outdid yourself.
It's for our young Queen, I take it?"
"Yes. And Lady Ainhara said I should bring
you this also."
She sees her place some paper, quill and ink down
and Esshi smiles.
Hard to believe that this is my 800th poem! ^^
Wow!
Anyway, enjoy part 4! ^^
Lyn ***
spysgrandson Jan 2013
The origin of spiritual sustenance is defined differently by each person. Most attribute it to a divine power or some God incarnate that helps us, limited corporeal beings that we are, relate to a deity or to the infinite. Like billions of other sentient souls, this is a way of "seeing" or believing that I have embraced on some level. However, when I ask myself what sustains me beyond this, I am taken down another path.

That path leads me to the crumbling adobe dwellings or sometimes to the freshly painted stucco buildings scattered across the great southwest. That path leads me to something more tangible or palpable than I can glean from traditional halls of worship. I am led instead to a simple yet profound vision--the sight of a hot plate of Mexican food.

Here is where a slight or perhaps dramatic shift in the way one thinks about the spirit is required. This is not necessarily a new concept but merely my take on it. You have all heard of "Soul Food" as it applies to the cuisine of the African American community or more generically in recent years, "comfort food". Also, some of you may recall me saying at one time or another, truly good junk food bypasses all vital organs and goes straight to the spirit. Let me clarify that last line--it is not that I believe the physical laws of the universe are suspended when one eats certain kinds of food—calories will still be consumed, the food digested and metabolized, etc. Instead, I believe, like so many things spiritual, eating Mexican Food transcends the natural laws of the universe as we know them.

This begs the question, why Mexican food as opposed to some other fare like Chinese or good old fried catfish, a southern favorite? The answer is simple. Some people, because of where they were, who they were, and when they were, are Christians, some are Hindus, some are Muslims and some are witches. I am a worshipper of Mexican food.

My sustenance, therefore, comes not from those in polished marble and stone palaces, clad in clerical garb and carrying holy texts. Instead, it comes from humble servants scurrying about hot kitchens doing what they do perhaps simply to feed their families—from my point of view, a noble endeavor in and of itself.

From the time I see a Mexican eatery through a bug-splattered windshield, I notice its energy or aura. When I open the door and see the gaudy but somehow authentic colors on sombrero covered walls, and hear playful Mariachi, and smell the frying tortillas, I know I have entered one of the houses of the holy. Truly, the colors, the sounds, the sights and the smell all take me to a higher place.

This sounds strange to most readers I am sure, but if I were speaking of a nature walk in dew covered grass among the scent of lofty pines, listening to the sound of songbirds, all could relate to its transcendent quality. We somehow place pristine nature above nature sculpted in a way for human benefit. I do this myself, except when it comes to Mexican food or perhaps a beautifully restored VW van, but that is another story.

To return to my original premise, the spiritual value of Mexican food—when the hot oblong platter is placed in front of me, I first notice its colorful array on the plate. Imagine a platter with red and blue corn chips, gray/brown frijoles covered with white cheese, orange rice, chili verde (green), a golden cheese covered enchilada, olive green guacamole, red ripe tomatoes with rich green cilantro and snow white onions, and last of all deep green jalapenos, forming a colorful tapestry and visual feast. (Contrast this with a hunk of brown steak, pale green peas, and a white glob of mashed potatoes.)

The scent of this feast immediately attacks my olfactory bulb and like so many smells, has the power to evoke startlingly clear memories. For me, I am taken to a place where the door opens to a moonless starry sky. I am in the desert, perhaps for the first time. I am in the desert, being courted by the dark desert lady who still haunts my soul in the night. I go back there so many nights, when all is quiet and my long day’s journey into night is finished. This vast, dark and inhospitable land that has called holy men to it through the ages calls me, a man as common as the cook whose labors unwittingly took me there. I huddle among the cacti, creatures who ask the earth for so little. I feel the endless winds that carry the remnants of a thousand ancient souls across the black Sonoran sky and rattle the door from where I came, as if still asking for entrance to a place where they can no longer dwell. Long ago, they returned to the desert for a final time, and now, a thousand nights and a thousand miles away, they mix with the holy night air as only desert dust can, and for a moment tempt the living, but then return to the black night. I do not yet join them—the door still opens to me. I can still see the colors, hear the sounds and place earthly but heavenly morsels in my mouth, and ask for more salsa.

Outside, in the dark desert, the night waits for me, but I have a few more bites to take, and a few more words to write, and to borrow a line from another, a few more miles to go before I sleep—thus, the spiritual value of Mexican food.
In my profile here at HP, I mentioned that I had written this--it was probably three years ago.
CA Guilfoyle Aug 2012
GMO foods punch holes in cells
permeate the gut, creating gaps in guts
Leading to food floating in bloodstreams, rivers of pain
Food allergies, ulcers, IBS .... these are the milder troubles
I won't speak of  IBD, Cancer and Crohns disease
Babies born now allergic to foods, children allergic more than ever
They said, though the BT injected crops killed bugs, bursting their bellies
that they were still safe for humans....They were wrong!
Now these GMO crops are causing a myriad of gastro problems in people!
Food crops are now Roundup ready in the
Killing Fields.


Videos to watch:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=FS72J9bDvPM&feature;=relmfu
www.youtube.com/watch?v=6D3TUk-XX1o&feature;=relmfu


TOP FOODS TO AVOID (unless labeled organic)
Corn
Soy
Potatoes
Canola, Cottonseed Oils
Sugar, fructose, corn syrup
Dairy - except organic
Tomatoes - except organic
Papaya/Hawaiian
Helpful links:  
www.naturalnews.com/035734GMOsfoods_dangers.html
http://truefoodnow.org/
I know this is another rant...I just really like getting the info out there to people.  This is serious stuff folks. I have seen it's seriousness first hand, we need to stop eating this crap! Buy organic if you can, grow your own food whenever possible.  : )

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