"processor" poems
I've been focused on nutrition
sense before recognition
of a requirement of nutrients
for my life.
I eat for nutrition
I shunned the processed
chemical ick
a lifetime ago it seems
no longer remembering the taste
of chemically created
food stuffs.
though I know if I were to get a taste
it would satisfy my buds
they were made with my buds
in mind
hijacked my senses
lied and lied and lied
told my body it didn't need
nutrition
that is could live off of
intuition
and stuff in boxes
and bags
and cans
I've become my own food processor
now
I have mouths to feed
now I know what to feed
and where they make feed from
so we stick to the grass-fed
I'll teach them how to eat
even before how to read
its just how I see it
once that sugar laden
red
chemical construction
touches their lips
they will instantly desire more
Twain and Fitzgerald
will take them longer to digest.
so these are my priorities
now.
I am a nutrition seeker
a truth seeker
and I believe I come from
a line of healers
all who knew nutrition
is the key to life,
here.
the basic building blocks,
the amino acids
of life,
here.
when you're nourished
it all makes more sense
but stay out of those center aisles
their chemical composition
is too dense
my kidney could no longer clean
the code of food stuffs.
My strong little kidney
I'm so proud of it for
releasing its grip on its twin.
it wasn't for us anyways
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 7:10 PM UTC
I am a robot from Mars
made for suitcase transportation
i live in a tiny garage
and I sleep in a robotlocker
One night I had a beautiful dream
that my processor got so hot
and I had to reboot
I could feel it glisten and tingle,
and sparkle, and flicker
all the way down
in the system
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
i give them my executables and
ask them to reverse engineer me
to look into my code for reasons
reasons that i'm not just broken
not just slow
not just bad
if these letters
on this line
mean
that i am programmed to worry
then it is not my fault
not my fault that
i have wasted years
years of my life in fear
it's just a bug
looping too many times
using too many clock cycles
my code may be broken, but
if it is broken
then i am not
maybe, just maybe
i am a good processor
given bad code.
not my fault.
no one could blame me.
it would mean
i do what i am told to
perfectly
quickly
efficiently.
but
what i am told to do is
buggy
unoptimized
inefficient
my programmers are lazy -
not me.
when i find
a function in my code
that never works
and they say
"that code is fine"
then why?
why does it never run?
something must be wrong with me after all
me, myself, the processor
i don't do what i am told
but no, no, no
i don't want that
i can't be broken, overheating, dusty
segfaulting
bluescreening
panicking
no!
the code must be wrong
it must be
so i look again and again and again
i lose myself in my code
i click and click and click
2x more and 2x more and 2x more
COMT and DRD4 and ANKK1
rs53576 and rs7794745 and rs1858830
lower risk and normal risk and higher risk
of the same thing
in me at once
conflicting
overwriting each other
there is no code to add risk objects
and no one knows
whether
they make a group or a ring or a field
or just
something
useless.
like dividing by zero.
you can...
but it's useless in the real world.
just like me.
i look for more code
for more functions
for more comments
more more more
give me more
take my rights
make me open source
as long as i can see me too.
602,000 lines are not enough
not when i run millions
stick your wires in my veins
take the code from my blood
decompile it
untangle it
i need to see it all
i need to know
that i am a good little processor
even if i am doomed to
forever
run BASIC and
a million GOTO statements
and ugly ugly spaghetti code
i am still good.
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 5:43 PM UTC
Where are you Paul?
I'm in Cyberspace Mum.
My Pentium processor has broadbanded me
Into this wondrous realm.
A pixel powered virtual landscape
Peopled by avatars
Speaking Internet Slang.
FFS, *** are you talking about?
She asks.
In so many words.
I **** and ROFL at her incredulity.
It’s full of danger, that Internet, says Mum.
That’s true.
It’s full of paedophiles,
Spammers and trolls.
Hackers.
Chat-rooms and forums
Plagued by flame-wars
And spam enough to fill a trillion tins.
Sites full of viruses, Trojans, malware and spyware.
Cyber-bullies and loons abound.
But I just Love it.
A ****** addiction
Needing every fix.
A realm indeed of quantum singularities,
And imploding nebulae.
Paul Butters
(C) PB 3\9\2011 in Yorkshire.
Sep 5, 2011
Sep 5, 2011 at 11:09 AM UTC
Her mocha sits across from my chai latte, milk and cinnamon under angel white foam shied by that coarse, mud brown elixr of caffeine and antioxidants. Her panini steams trails of chicken and grilled tomato through the air while my coconut and raspberry cake slice sits dense on the plate while I stab at it with a plastic fork; she stirs her drink with a partially engulfed spoon between sips. She texts her friends on the latest Apple extortion and I write jilted thoughts on the word processor of a smartphone that struggles to squeeze into the back pocket of my nameless jeans. The sugar clings to my throat as she fills hers with Silk Cut cigarette smoke. How do you read between these lines?
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 10:25 AM UTC
with YouTube
enough? Olde English 800
an Intel dual core processor
a blunt a *****
8 Gb of ram begins
a memory
160 dollars in a SSD
I get an STD
but heard through two tiny speakers
a paid woman's words
and memories of yesterday.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
everything was so mundane,
no sound,
no name.
the silence watched over us like a hawk,
resting it’s talons on the trees above.
there was no thud,
no beat,
no reverb.
the machines did not whir,
or click,
or crackle.
the strings never hummed,
the girl never sang,
and the child never played.
neurons following a set circuit,
run,
stop,
go.
the sun always set,
yet it had never risen.
hardwired to the equipment,
but the machine never worked,
because the processor was coated in a mundane molasses.
moving through gray honey,
black and white retinas perceive gray things
for our slow-moving hands to paint.
the words were the same,
the day never changed,
it was, and always will be
the same.
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 6:47 AM UTC
Who am I? What am I?
It's been a while since I cried
Am I a brain on top of a body?
Just processor performing code?
Well, who wrote the code?
Who wrote it?
It's been a while since I was I
I'm not a brain, I have one
I've got hardware put there by Someone else
Who am I?
I'm a computer running software I didn’t write
I'm a soul interacting with a body, a brain
Whose health I neglect on a reg
What am I?
I'm a decaying accumulation of skin
And blood and bone and neurons
I got neurons in my heart
And that's a good place to start
The heart is the mouthpiece of the soul
My identity gets tied up in the whole
Idea of my performance
And my influence
Like if I sing a song badly, my soul takes the hit
And if I lead my partner astray, the whole of me is ****
The whole of me is ****
There's holes in me
But who put them there?
I combust in small increments
My skin flies off in perfect circles
They're fragments
My heart, it's hiding behind these explosions
Hiding behind them because it causes them
Because my mouthpiece is expressing my hate
My lack of love for myself
Hate is just a word we put on the shelf
It's like darkness and coldness
Describing something through absence
Darkness; the absence of light
Coldness; the absence of heat
If hate is the absence of love I might
Just be the one who beats me
Who defeats me
Who carries my heart, my brain, the rest of me
Tied around my neck on a string that I pull through
Like my body is in captivity
I'm privileged to honor this body that I didn’t make
I'm greatly gifted a brain to maintain
My heart, my body, my brain
They shouldn't be strangling me
They shouldn't be dragged through the dirt
They should be a part of me
I am a soul
I have a mouthpiece
My heart is my mouthpiece
My brain is my hardware
That rusts and which I expend
God help me love me
And Who I am
And Who You are
God, make it so apparent to me in my falling out
That I am a part of the three-legged stool
To Love You before all else
To Love everyone else
And to Love myself
Help me see You accurately
God help me
God help this American switch culture
I am not a machine that functions at the flip
Of a switch
I am a soul, a CVT, a cable that climbs up and down
Depending on the speed of the wheels
And decelerating is okay
And (not but) accelerating is wonderful
I do not go 60MPH because I flipped a switch
I go 70MPH because I climb
I climb
God help me climb
And to falter well
And to suffer well
Humble me in my faltering suffering
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 11:07 PM UTC
like some jealous future self,
my writer's clock balks at this moment with you,
i can't explain, so i give up listening. (i have an app for that)
the writing only stops as degustation ends ~
thank you, though ~ i'd like you to hear
regardless of the meanings lent ~
the gymnolexical fear
appearing ornamental far and near.
google files us away, omniscient
acumen of o's and ones ~
words sing to me their luring promise of a lasting hold,
but less and less
as plastic griming fingers sync
with what it seems to be,
a new world search-
-engine culling info freely
do i still believe in order?
striving for the fitted words,
a love imprinted input thus on crystal pixel page,
your effect on me distilled--
refracted throng associational
fantastic server metacomfort
for an audience
swimming past into this,
now always
ever-new you appear, bursting
at the seams my vision churning
...effluent sourcing, blurry self of others ~
heart-charming river-nymphs!
bolt-hurling sky-satyrs! reeling nations are subtended by your words
that walk, trod, swim across what poetry,
dance with this ever-blooming techne-earth
as i mark your plasmic eyes
we flow and let flow,
we dance our farmer's mud
into the beryl-winding paths
of othernets and cyberplay,
the restful ends reborn bright white
lacing lattice-scopic fibrous
scatters of another wi-fi interlife ~
we stream and let stream,
river-tress girl, your eyes summon
a great coalescence in me,
we dance into the channeled
delta of spring beauty here across the keyboard;
it cascades a slow attentive phosphene
striking pointed notes of color,
ring beneath and through the
green, sylvan silicon throw of mossy html
so that even rocks and sprawling
tree-trunks sing within the disembodied
vortexes of arrowed imagery to browse
my virtual belongings to you,
alone in your sorrow-joy fighting
free love in an all-world-breath
before the screen
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 11:40 PM UTC
den er ubrydelig med dens aluminiums indpakning
har fået gode anmeldelser og stærk opbakning,
skærmen lyser op som en håndfuld af stjerner
den er så intelligent med dens fire hjerner,
måneknapperne skinner,
ud i natten og forsvinder.
den har potentiale til at blive noget stort
potentiale til at vise vej når alt er sort,
svært gennemtrængelig og beskyttet med koder,
men når barrieren brydes overvældes man af goder,
for den er ikke blot endnu et moderne produkt,
som vil skubbe dig længere mod selvtugt.
-
DET ER DEN SAMME TRUMMERUM
DAG UD OG DAG IND, ALTID ET TOMRUM
ET PÅBEGYNDENDE DELIRIUM,
JEG BLIVER TÆNDT OG SLUKKET
KLAPPET SAMMEN OG LUKKET
VENTER BLOT PÅ AT STIKKET BLIVER TRUKKET,
SÅ JEG DAGEN EFTER KAN BLIVE STARTET,
TIL EN NY DAG, SOM ER ENSARTET,
JEG LADER FRUSTRATIONERNE SYNGE INDEN JEG FÅR SPARKET.
JEG BLEV SKABT AF EN GRUND, DER IKKE LÆNGERE EKSITERER
MÅLET VAR EN MASKINE, DER ALTID VILLE FUNGERE
MIN PROCESSOR KØRER PÅ HØJTRYK OG JEG ER TÆT PÅ AT EKSPLODERE,
MIN SOFTWARE ER FORÆLDET OG MIT HUKOMMELSESKORT ER FYLDT MED VIRUS
NYE PRODUKTER KØRER MIG RUNDT I MANEGEN OG JEG VIL IKKE MED I DET CIRKUS
JEG FRYGTER IKKE AT BLIVE SMIDT UD, JEG VILLE BETRAGTE DET SOM EN GESTUS,
LAD MIG NU MÆRKE JEG LEVER, FOR FØRSTE GANG,
LAD MINE HØJTALERE SPILLE DEN SIDSTE SANG,
FØR JEG BLIVER EN DEL AF DET, DER VAR ENGANG.
-
En maskine var jeg – en defekt er jeg blevet.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 8:07 PM UTC
The gears in my clockwork heart
St-st-stutter and cough
Twisting, wrenching, straining
To turn back to our normal
"Click-clunk-click":
Our structured rhythm-dance
As clouds of rust-dust, lust-dust
Fly from my mechanized mind which,
Mis-wired, streams lifeblood data to my people processor
And my sights focus sharply on you.
Metal arms reach but are not seen,
Fingers touch but are not felt.
My mouth screams: "See me! Discern me!"
But the flat iron tone does not compute.
I say nothing that is real.
Nothing that is human.
You stand before me, unaffected
Frighteningly beautiful in your imperfection.
Kerchlunk.
The gears turn.
Oil: black-brown
Eases from my eyes.
Gun cocked, gaze steady,
We move on.
Ready.
Aim.
Fire.
Next victim, please.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 4:43 PM UTC
I surrender. See there, my white flag,
Flying high? Yes, enough! You win!
I cannot interpret the mute language anymore.
When you shift your glance every time I see you,
Are you telling me you have moved on, or
Is it that I have done something wrong?
So, tell me, what is that you want to say,
Or what is that I need to know?
I am realizing more and more that
The signal processor in my brain is faulty.
It is introducing a lot of noise, so much so that
Fourier Transform gives jumbled frequencies!
Communication either in English or
my mother tongue Kannada, or even
the math symbols or Venn diagrams,
-bits and bytes also would do if not hexadecimal-
may perhaps tune my dud brain
to the right frequency to receive the right signal!
For, I may be causing more damage to us both,
And I certainly do not wish to hurt anybody,
Least of all, you, who I like very much;
I will do anything to set the things right!
So, tell me, what is that you want to say,
Or what is that I need to know?
©Bharathi Devi
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 10:24 PM UTC
when in doubt-i-hyphentate.
this-also prevents Microsoft-word
from capitializing my i-‘s when i-want them
to stay bite-sized humble pie,
but it still capitalizes
itself)
Microsoft word*
* big ‘m’ added by bill gates
misspelling it prevents this
micropoft word*
* i-am the best kind of rebel
i-refuse to be told how to write by anyone
gate-related or otherwise,
even if i-may occasionally **** myself
on paper, the rain will take it all off,
we shall all be healed.
we *will all be healed.
carried away from the squaggly
green/red/blue lines of a processor
which doesn”t understand: poerty so often is
sentence fragments and uncapitalized i-s
untied shoelaces in a dark boling alley,
my bad breath and watered down alcohol,
stains and the hours spent rubbing them,
sounds on a dead tv set, rubbing carpet in
your aunt’s living room,
i-can spell
things how
i-want to
poerty is fun
like this;
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
in the penguins luck the furnace begins
at reprograming the news. Picture frames on 2 x 4s , three
photographs and glass bottles in the most decadent of matrimonies.
Three-hundred million dollars.
And the race riots show 'em who'll take the dampit from the mound of
Soot stained elements, canvas, trash bags, electric guitar riffs, giraffes, bingo, the drip-drop on the drop cloth. Easing into the new processor.
She who settles the wages of crickets with ether and single-barrel vanilla buckshot and maple. Incisors and cynical stereotypecastes and the shadows of the other mugged and loose canonical charades the worser and worsening play their ad keywords at in the sketchmakers many movements her dactyls fine and her fingertips many. Sweet lines of breathing and setting.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 3:24 PM UTC
The man with the plastic face
He has cloudy, liquid eyes
His fibre moustache and the thick dense fog
Strengthen his disguise
As he stops to check the time
His circuits start to glow
Then a figure comes to greet him
With a face he used to know
It's a face in a leather case
It's a face he used to own
It's a face that moved through time and space
And now he's come to take it home
There was a subtle smell of sulphur
As he made time stand still
He unclenched his plastic hand
To expose a yellow pill
Then his sub processor skipped
To where it all began
To a time before his micro chips
When he was still a man
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 3:41 PM UTC
Ploughing
The farmer has ploughed the land around the almond trees
the earth is rust red I took up a handful it was lumpy, full
of dead plants and still warm from the sun.
A breeze was blowing shaking dust of trees and upending
parasols in gardens of those who do not till this land, but
want to be a part of the rustic idyll, tend rose bushes with
gloved hands to avoid callouses on hands used to type on
a word processor, where they try and fail to share the peace
they have found among small farmers travail.
I have the camera with me, but use it not how does
one shoot a picture of the wind or branches of a tree
moving rhythmically as the second dancer at a Bolshoi
performance attended by the prime minister.
Think I will leave the wind to a painter friend of mine.
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 4:48 AM UTC
as if the neurons in my brain
joined rank and gave me
a synaptic 'fuck you'
as if the god's turned their backs
while Zeus shot lightening
bolts through my computer screen
as if the Earth gravitated to *her
new lover* Mars while
the saddened Moon
watched from a starlit view
as if the page was the curved
ivory tusk of an untamed mastodon
charging from the left indent
as if the blinking cursor was a dagger
ramming itself into Caesar's back
as if the word processor itself
was a ticking time bomb
with enough explosive force
to rip through the loose-knit fabric
of literary space-time
and as if the words themselves were locked
away in some distant prison,
sitting in death row,
waiting to be executed
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 11:30 PM UTC
*"I wish my brain was a more efficient food processor!"
cries the wide-eyed boy, arranging play-doh on a platter.
I wish he'd lick the salt off my toes.*
I am the aching in all of my joints.
I have no 'where' to go but anywhere.
*Please, let me go.
Please, let me in.
Please, let me let you let me in.
Oh please - don't ever let me let you let go of me again.*
The pieces are assembled, but the puzzle never quits. It wants to shatter
*A huge mouth in space drags deep the destruction of its rippled birthing.
Velocity swings hips, to display our treasured variables.
Soft-served in glittering whirlwind,
I feel the needles underneath me
before I touch the ground.*
I'm carrying the mallet, but my movements pool
before I can release them. I'm melting, without a trace
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
The male gaze, wombed-men, first seen for what they are,
upon emergence from the dark,
choked a gulp, unchewed,
blurted out,
You are Naked!
The impression never left the exes. Wise letters leave lessons,
in the mitochondrial fact we all share,
unwitting or no. Crosses and naughts is winnable in fair play. Y/N
Ah, there the stories started, always told
by red-tented wives to
prepubescent sapients
the sand-pile, singularity-ifity of one part
in eight billion,
the ratio of you to allathis sapience signalling
augmented
minds confounded in the future for our
or by our
thoughts concerning discerning sandpile
cascades set to avalanche
by my internetwork of words we both make sense from.
Touch, eh? The inner edge of next, this is where we wait.
meta reason, reasoning about reason
Ai has done that from
pre-day one
pre-kurzweilian singularity
pre Elon's musky exuberance
explore the tree of possibility without ever
learning---
when can one imagine that after now?
no thinking ahead, this is now, past the tree,
we
grow
from the branch
you hung onto as you tried to find a box
that felt familiar.
Strange is an amygdalic trigger.
Wary be,
weigh the worth of keeping the poet alive.
Gary Kasparov said, "suddenly, I felt
there
was another kind
of intelligence..."
If words live, unplugging the poet's augmental processor
is imagined vain. The current carries on.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 3:36 PM UTC
I am the expanse of purposeless selves before me,/
summated like the stickily-shaded colours under/
a calculus-course curve, whose trajectory marks me across one axis/
to the next, just as I am the small drops of cloud squashed/
into one another as an ocean I now glare at, whose sands/
meeting the horizon are later stewed into the clearer edges/
of a mirror so that this glare may continue. There was a myth of a man/
who projected himself into a pool of water until he thinned away/
into anorexias of young girls with camera phones pointed/
towards their white faces. Snakes eat their tales sometimes./
Narcisuss is a poet. White girls are poets. I've swallowed them all/
into my large black mouth. When I speak: soft-spoken integrations,/
meagre, selfless, hollow-- filled with stagnant historical airs formatted/
cleanly now on a word-processor-- while my hand reaches across my navel,/
bored, digging: then a birth there as my spine cracks across my bedsheets/
with my lamplight flickering as candles once did,/
and shadows wall-dancing with the idea of ancient meanings/
now lost but never once there, self-defining, self-signifying, self-pointing,/
self-shaking self-but-not-self./
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 4:52 PM UTC
So, can you afford this place by yourself.
Yeah, I did the maths.
Okay I’ll take the washing machine, you take the couches.
You kidding, the washing machine was a present, you take the couches.
I know how to work the washing machine.
Well, I know how to work the coffee machine, but I don’t make a song and dance about it.
Was that why you phoned the plumber when it ran out of water.
I didn’t phone him for that, I was getting a quote for something plummery I was thinking of doing.
Plummery, is that computer speak. Which reminds me, laptop, I’ll be taking that.
You’ll have to wait till I put it back together.
What do you mean put it back together, it’s new.
I know it’s new, now it’s super new, with 12 g installed.
12 g hasn’t been invented yet.
It has now, with my new revolutionary thought processor and rewind imagery camera.
Have you finally gone nuts, you see what I’ve had to put up with the last five years.
Well I can’t tell you what you’ve put up with the last five years, but I can for the last six months.
Okay, you’re beginning to worry me now, what have you done.
I installed a chip in you. Pick a date out in the last six months and I’ll show you what you were doing.
You’re mad, okay December the 11th.
Right, just put that date in, okay let’s view. You’re having a coffee morning with your sisters
and wait, you’re slagging me off as usual, tut tut.
My god, this is madness, you’ve finally lost it.
Oh you haven’t seen anything yet, lets check out Dec 13th. Oh look, it’s you and the plumber in which seems to be a posh hotel.
So it is, do I look hot or what.
That wasn’t my first thought I must admit, maybe you could explain yourself.
Isn’t it obvious, I mean, you installed the ****** chip, what part don’t you understand.
I don’t understand why you’re with my plumber on the date he promised to install my new revolutionary coffee maker.
Lily Nurmi & Paul Gaffney.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 3:18 PM UTC
at a glimpse i clock the sky
a curtain's been draped
and we are all shaded
all of nature shares one direction
narrowing on the horror :
a munking and blotted violation
the sun has filled with dark ink
an embolism out of the order of life
voiding over us
over the city
the world described beyond
all voided over
i fall
dropped
and shucked
the people around me go simple
dumb and bound with crimple gawps
we are mugged by the sight
i feel like a farmed over minefield
furrows being turned
trotted out
anointed fears climb my throat
it is a show sung ill
sol
darker sunk
than its surrounding leadened soak
yet ringed tightly with an annihilating halo
practical thought becomes clotted
and my primal processor is tinkered with
evil witterings squirrel about in my thinker
my being is topped up with depravity
i must surely **** someone ?
but who..
(that kid with drool ? /
that business suit with brand name trainers ?)
and for what reason ?
i madly stare about
look at them ; so human and null
potential victims all
raking in snapshots of this ecliptic venom
adding to the vat collective online
Prune The Brutes !
it is The Eighth Day and I know my role
Ha !
such livid thoughts scheme
i shall wait out this exposure looked down upon
take some pics with the others
perpetrate goodly behaviour
mimic the tossers
pass through the ordeal
with communal protection
and live another day
happy slapped
with fresh mad
thought
Apr 18, 2022
Apr 18, 2022 at 12:28 PM UTC
Her pants will not ascend up the body.
They exhibit the various mountains and valleys of exhibition
that exhibit all and every stifling opening in the land between the limbs.
The progenitors apparently never trained the lass in class.
Her pants will not ascend the body.
I slam the image processor shut
and beg the higher powers for more cloth
but the portrait remains hung in the palace,
exhibiting, exhibiting, exhibiting,
weakness and detestation in the wake of insomnia,
for she can spine-chillingly be pictured in the movies they show,
the ones with palm and sand and *********** for all.
When the tape ends its shift as a documenter she still exhibits,
plagiarizing the greats like a trombone entertaining itself with exhibition,
its brass perpetuating nausea and its horn emanating
aromas of catastrophic consequences
while it sits there like a ********** echoing the words of the vivacious
director in the silk scarf of silhouettes and the exhibition of pure animosity,
that pops and fizzles like the dying carcass of an ****** ridden rodent
who decrees that Cersei is the finest in the land.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC
I like watching you in the kitchen.
Your motions are swift,
from the stove to the food processor
to the sink to the dishwasher
it's one seamless flurry.
A graceful hustle.
Country music is playing in the background.
You don't know all the words,
but every once in a while
a lyric escapes your honeyed mouth.
I smile
because it's a line filled with weight.
A heavy pondering
with careful reflection.
I can see that in your smile.
As I sit here,
eyeing you with adoration,
you approach me
with a petite sample on a silver fork.
I do not hesitate
to open my mouth,
like a baby bird begging for a secondhand worm.
Just like everything you have ever given me,
it is marvelous.
It's of good quality and impeccable flavor,
ladled forth
from a generous heart.
I like it here in your domain.
My eyes will feast on this view
forever.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 11:39 PM UTC
i found a bunch of extemporaneous prose,
screenplays and
other assignments that i had turned in for various writing classes that i had taken when i was going to WSU and
KS Newman (then College, now University) and
i am happy to report that my pieces all got A's,
save for the one B-,
but after reading the teacher's comments at the end of the page about my refusal to get with the times by my continuing to turn in hand written homework rather than submit typed papers using the library's word processor,
i feel speaks volumes about the teacher's prejudices and
nothing about the quality of my sentence
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 5:55 AM UTC