If cows go moo chickens cluck, therefore if the farmer has eaten chicken eggs, he will cluck,
and if he had a steak dinner, he will clmook...
and yield eggs filled with milk from his ****.

This is why eggs are solely a breakfast food,
while steak is a dinner because mixing the two in one meal only makes the effects worse,
turning a Farmer over time into a milk filled egg.

Note only farmers are affected like this,
since it takes very high levels of exposure to beef and eggs in their raw un-processed forms,
which we don't buy at grocery stores for the above reasons...
First the mutagen's proprieties of the two mixed together must be neutralized.
By filling any crates in which beef are shipped with powdered eggs
and crates of eggs with beef made from a special breed of cow that has been genetically bred to lay eggs,
the hooves and horns go to make that strange astronaut ice cream that you see in gift shops.

Each "netrie-cow cost over 10,000,000 yen each (and you can only pay in yen)
but without them entire crops of beef eggs can be lost.

Oh i forgot... these were pure bred eggs and beef that need to be treated...
Beef eggs are a new advancement of science,
they are normal eggs in every sense but that they moo when you shake them if they have gone bad,
and taste slightly like beef and need no special treatment.

The chicks which hatch from beef eggs grow to be feathered cows which mate with everything in sight,
and usually are killed before they have the chance to grow,
but many a farmer has decided the risk of raising chowkins worth their original flavor and taste,
but many employ steel pant plates to prevent accidents
(since for some reason chowkins Can produce offspring in humen males as well as their own kind...)
The process killing the farmer,
and producing a creature which speaks in only an impenetrable deep southern accent and Farmer slang,
loves milk and grass,
and unable to perform any function in society,
but crops grown by such creatures are noticeably better in taste.

Clmook!
Clmook!
Clmook!
Go get your lifetime supply of cheese?
Please?

in my veins, these fiery flames, irritate like grains of forgotten names

call me insane, but at least I maintain composure and refrain from strangling myself deranged

even tho im convoluted, completely diluted and secluded from this polluted brainless blue ***

i can't shake these blunders of wonders that wake me from my slumbers and asunder like lightening after thunder

why is this society, full of variety, stuck on the wrong types of proprieties? to feed your satiety? to reach your notoriety?  

continue to lie to me. stream the feed on live t.v. the glamour of no individuality. convincing there's something wrong with me.

straight faced frugality. absolutely no morality.

they feed on the weak. while they silently weep. "beauty doesn't come cheap, so take the leap! buy now and don't be unique!"

******* grotesque! I'd rather rip my heart outta my chest than ingest that wretched mess.

"beauty" is born not molded and formed from biohazard waste and paste. hows that plastic taste while you constantly baste your neighbors in hate.

I can't wait til the day you meet fate.

We are raised with society surrounding us,
yet we feel the need to distinguish,
in-group ourselves with the outliers,
to live with our anguish.
In doing so we gain some right,
believing that different makes us better,
rather than live in that ignorant shroud,
and stand together loud and proud.
What we don't understand is in our drive to survive,
and seem entirely different,
we ourselves have joined a society,
and with that we have fallen into proprieties.
Hot Topic,  and the slop that is gangster,
we wear to create a wall,
between us and conforming society,
who unlike us never heard the call.
The call to greatness,
the call to art,
the call to pimping,
we all had a start.
And now we sit in our ****** homes,
(trying to) make money by day ,
thinking where we went wrong.
How did I fall out with so many opportunities,
where did I fall off the wagon?

Well kid, it happened when your pants started saggin,
when you wore the black to stick out from the white,
when you refused to try because nobody "got it",
and when you were always looking for a fight.
It's easy to put the blame on someone else,
how else can you live with such dissonance?
Maybe if you had shut up and listened,
instead of dirt you would be the one who glistened.

(Note: The first two lines of this poem were used by Diane Wakoski as a prompt for students in her poetry workshops. I couldn't resist the challenge. The result was this poem. Try it yourself.  - mce)

Next time we meet,
let's keep our clothes on.
Let us observe
the proprieties,
proper and Puritan.
Let us maintain
the distance of fools.
Let us smile
the waxed smiles
of corpses.
Let us pretend
we have never
danced within
one another,
have never sung
unlikely songs
of flesh and desire.
It will be awkwardly
exact and Victorian,
but it will be safe.
No heartbreak will ensue.
Next time we meet,
let's keep our clothes on.
  - mce

Are we not the epitome of what we condemn others for,
as we will fight the good fight of our youth,
while we ******* on the internet to a *****,
and blind ourselves to the truth.
That we have chosen to deny what is hurting us,
and instead cover it up with an excuse,
avoiding the humility only creates distrust,
life's truth's are covered by a ruse.
While we tell our children that *** is only with love,
and drugs are what make people die,
while we hide the reason a man ever made the glove,
and avoid the reason in which people fly.
We choose to believe that everyone should be good and holy,
and only the delinquents are what ruin society,
but everyone is the same and going to die slowly,
so why should we all stick with proprieties?

Out of the edge
The very corner of my eye
In the free-standing vitrine
Assembled under plexi
with various small pieces
all 1800s
In what at that time was
a richly coral walled gallery
Deliberately
A small marble bust
Yes I’m calling you out
Although I don’t know your accession number
and you’re no longer on view
Nor will be
any time soon
for that matter
You took advantage
You waited until my very last
moment’s attention
and as I turned my head away
a quick trick
the head turns
A flash of movement
Or movement is how I understood it
Because that’s what my brain
told me it was
You know that I saw this
of course
since you did it on purpose

At the time I told you to cut that **** out
NOT FUNNY
Or words to that effect

I thought that that’s
how you must handle such things
And I still do
It’s childish

Yet it only comes to mind now
That you must have done this countless times
To so many
The contexts endless
Though it must get old
But you
are old

It would be nice to know when it started
And why
this parlor trick
For I’d never felt watched or scrutinized
or judged

by objects on display
which is what you are
Particularly in this gallery

you went straight to
“provocation”

Perhaps you meant
“help me”
but I doubt it

One imagines that anything would eventually get sick
Of being looked at
Heads leaning in for a closer
examination
You’re such a
little thing
which may be part of the problem
It could feel like a curse
to forever be a
lapis lazuli ormolu encrusted vessel
for the rest of eternity
It never occurred to me.
I never thought what must it be like?

Trivialized to surfaces.
Put on the shelf.
To fall out of history.
I should have understood more quickly
of course

I remember hearing
that an old drawing done of myself
had been on view in a gallery
without my knowing
without anyone bothering to mention it besides a vague
throwaway
aside
made well after the fact
like a tossed cigarette ground into the sidewalk
outside a dull party

I don’t remember the image
but some part of me was hanging on some wall nonetheless.
Had it done anything untoward
to some poor **** walking past?
An alchemical interruption?
I certainly hope so.
Confound dominion.
Assail the event horizon of metaphysical politesse and proprieties.
Defy a petty corporeal quarantine of sorts.

To throw off this mantle
if for just one split second.

I am always curious about how other people write. So here is how one poem developed for me.

I try to write each day. I sit down and sometimes there's a line or a thought that I know I want to write about. Sometimes I page through my unfinished poems notebook and choose one to work on. Other times I read from a favorite poetry anthology until something sparks a poem.

This day we had gone for a drive to pick up lunch, and I was back at home. I read some from the poetry anthology, and I loved this line by Jane Miller, from her poem "Poetry", in the anthology Gift of Tongues:
"We are being made into words even as we speak," and I write this:

I return to my room
cool dark and deep
words having
swirled around me
all day
tempting
me to reach out
to grab a few
to put together
into this poem
that is today.

I like it, but it doesn't really say anything about my day. I love the phrase, "this poem that is today." So what happened today? How can I incorporate something more specific from my day today into the poem?

I love writing about nature. Lots of neighborhood trees in my poems. I also often write about things in my head, or about things that are central to who I am. Self poems.

I try to include physical descriptions in my writing, so it's not just unattached thoughts floating around like they do in my head. Rarely, I write about people. Who could be made into words from today?

I remember a waitress from where we got lunch. I have lots of thoughts. (We were wearing masks, but you can still tell when people are smiling.)

I return
to my room
cool dark and deep
words
having swirled around
like the waitress' full skirt.
I smile at her
and hope her life
will be one of
many smiles
I hope that
she will bend her world
to suit her
instead of being bent
by the traditions and proprieties
I see filling
the space around her
those things I grasp and find words in
to make this poem
that is today.

I copy the poem, making slight changes, moving sections so they make more sense to me, scribbling alternate words off to the side. I enjoy writing by hand. I enjoy copying the poem. Sometimes I make changes, sometimes not. The copying is soothing to me.

I read the poem out loud and think about line breaks. I try to imagine a stranger reading it. Would they know what I was talking about? I don't want to offend anyone's religious traditions, but that is part of this specific poem. She isn't just any waitress, she's a teenager who is clearly part of a very specific tradition.

I don't know if the finished poem is "better" than that above, but it's where I end up and feel wanting to share with the world. I come here to post my poem, and then move the original into my finished (but not quite right) notebook. I don't think it has much to do with that original quote from Jane Miller, so I will save that for another day.

The waitress
started March 3rd, 2021

I smile at the waitress
and she smiles back
so young and unformed
being everything
that everyone around her expects.

Words swirl through the air
like her skirt does
as she turns
lace covering her hair
speaking of conventions and traditions
that look so pretty
when you don't have to live them.

I hope that her life
will be filled with
many heart-felt smiles
and that she will
bend her world to suit her
instead of being bent or broken
by all I see crowding
the space around her.

I return home
to sort through
all these dense heavy thoughts
to find the words
to make this poem
that is today.