"spatula" poems
To cook something beautiful
You need a few unsightly ingredients.
Like to make a cake
You need flour and baking soda
Baking powder, sugar, and a hint of salt
Water and eggs.
They aren't appealing to look at
By themselves
Or even when mixed together.
But when handled right,
And with a little time
Love and care
An oven and a spatula
You conform them into exactly the right shape
And those unsightly ingredients become
A tasty treat,
But what's a cake without frosting?
It's something bigger than what it was.
It's a combination
The frosting makes it more
Visually appealing,
It masks the overly cooked
Side.
Some air pockets from
An inexperienced
Or careless chef.
It's masks imperfections.
You can't force a cake to become perfect.
It needs time,
it needs love,
it needs care.
Dare I say it again,
It needs time,
It needs love,
It needs care.
When the cake
Gets those, and is left alone
To bake,
To think about what it's job is,
To not just be beautiful
Covered in frosting
But without it as well,
You'll have the best ****
Cake you've ever made.
It won't be over done on one side
Or the other,
It won't have air bubbles,
It'll glisten and gleam,
And be pristine.
You'll have a cake
Beautiful
On the inside and out.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
I was turned on by a Toaster, she tanned my bread to gold
In time she ejected me, it was her natural Toaster role...
I fell for her sister, a Deep Fryer in despair, my lust began to boil
I had to come up for some air...
I ran off with a Can Opener, she could even sharpen knives,
She opened up a can of *** whip, she could never be my wife!
I met a **** Freezer, but her heart was cold as ice, I was bitten by her frosty ways
Once bitten, never twice...
I made my way across the tile to an Oven quite unique
All her features were well displayed, on this EZ Baking Freak!
She cooked me on the surface, yet burnt me deep within
I guess my culinary skills were lacking in the end...
So now I date a Spatula safely from the heat
She flips a mean burger and french fries by the heap!
Truth is I'm a Poet
Who simply likes to eat!
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
"Have you talked to dad,
since you've been at school?"
"Nope."
"Are you coming home
for thanksgiving?"
"I don't know."
Josephina
breathes in a crackle
over the phone.
New York,
a cacophony
in the background.
A background of cold,
and
people talking
while walking
while hailing a yellowcab with a left
and slow-rolling heads locked
onto the phones in their right.
These people enter taxis,
not knowing if they're ever
going to reach home,
or the airport,
or union square,
just going
on the promise
that they won't become
road-kill.
I can't feel it in my yellow apartment.
If anything,
my yellowcab
idles.
Through the receiver
A squad car
rings nervously,
then
after a lungful
of garbage-smelling air,
it becomes a full blare.
A pause
of
noise
always ensues,
just for a second,
the entire corner
becomes a silent silo
of human beings.
"How's new york?"
"you know,
dad called me
and asked about
how to get on a diet,
can you believe that?"
Yes,
I can
dad is a fat ****
a pink, white belly
of a man. And a few
sandbags for chins.
"That's good."
"So I'm not going to see you?"
"Probably not."
"Well, you should call dad,
talk to him,
he loves
you."
Some conversations,
acheive nothing.
The same
tired, dead things
get run over.
Road-kill.
Josephina believes she is the spatula
that will bring back
pancake squirrels
and
pancake relationships.
As much as you don't know
about me and dad's relationship,
I can give you a kodak moment.
A snapshot,
of a hovering man,
pointing at his son's neck,
searching for the misplaced vertebrae,
the lack
of fear for the world
--"the right kind of fear,
the fear a man
should have
of himself"--
and a son,
hunched,
small hands in fists,
a heavy haul of muscles
pulled into a dark brow
right over black eyes.
This picture
will suffice.
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 4:59 PM UTC
You know the highways, dark alleys, and short cuts of the fire. Dawn to dusk in an endless soufflé. When water hits boil I join to chop but I fall asleep, I am yet to be seasoned. When I awake I dine and dash. I apologize for treating you like digestion, for forgetting the grizzled spatula. My humility was famished my pride was stuffed. How ignorant to believe the pilot rose and fell like the sun. Spiritual starvation my consequence for self-righteous gluttony but now my plate is sparkling and I can see clear reflection, instead of a bite I desire to serve you both hand and foot as you have served me….Thank you……Jesus
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 9:09 AM UTC
I crack an egg over the pan,
And drizzle it with salt
The oil seethe with anger,
As the sides of the egg turns brown
I push a spatula between the egg and the pan,
Then I slowly lift it and transfer it to a plate
The yolk wiggles in a funny motion
A whiff reaches my nose and it lingers for a while
The last one joins the other plates on the table.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 9:38 PM UTC
Throughout our childhood, our grandmother would turn to us,
in her yellow-lit kitchen, brandishing a rubber spatula or meat
tenderizer to warn us against falling to temptation. She’d witnessed
too many good people disappear into what she called
a consumption of the soul,
and as my cousins licked sugary batter off their spoons,
no one could have known that one day the candy-coating
would melt from their eyes to see their mother
for what she had done the last six years that now showed in her trembling hands, glossed vision, and a temperament that splashed into anger, flowed into melancholy as easily as she had found herself downing bleary bubbles at the brim of a precipiced fountain.
She was promised her very own message in a bottle, and this keep-sake
manifested in cousin Libby’s dreams, floating down a wine river
that gushed from the slashes in her mother’s wrists. Somehow I knew
these nightmares were born from warm and heady “sleep well”s
mumbled from across the darkest of rooms which held so many glass
ghouls with names and strengths so real, they even scared
my grandmother into silence as she stirred the pecan pie for Easter dinner. She offered to let me lick the spoon clean, but I simply
asked for straight sugar instead.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 8:40 PM UTC
I am a humming bird with a broken wing forming a geometric fall.
I am a conjoined twin with a foot in heaven and one in hell.
I am a geyser spewing out echoes from a stonewall well.
I am an open road stretched for miles paved with a murderous smile.
I am a man with a firm handshake who stands still on top of an earthquake.
I am a visionary man who slipped on fate and fell in love.
I am a preliminary hearing fallen on deaf ears.
I am the contribution to your retribution.
I am a person of depersonalization.
I am a one man army minus one man.
I am the desired taste of orange juice and toothpaste.
I am concentrated concentration.
I am the formation of your imagination.
I am the comma for your introductory clause.
I am the cause for your sudden pause.
I am the spatula that stirs up your anxiety.
I am the reaper who never leaves a clue.
I am the lace that always chokes the shoe.
I am the light that finds its way thru helping the little shrew.
I am the suburban white boy who sings the blues.
I am consistent inconsistency.
I am your assigned tour guide for your expiration exploration.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 5:42 PM UTC
or "let's order takeout,"
or "small ineptitudes in the kitchen"
1.
butter
lop
it liberally
silver clinging
scrape it
pan side
sputters and hissing
smoky?
turn the heat
down
crimsoning
elemental
browning the
butter
2.
sizzling whites
diaphanous
stiffly whitened
bubbles surface
spatula stroking
poly—
tetrafluoroethylene
roll the egg
yolk
shattering
yellow
3.
**** the water
nothing—
evaporated
gasping
blue effluvium
windows
fanblades
blackened ***
the bite of a
char upon
it
tea for
tomorrow
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC
Move rack to lowest position,
Set to three seventy-five.
Pour in one and a third cups water,
Sprinkle egg whites (package A),
Blend on LOW till moist.
Beat on high (but remain patient)
Stiff peaks will form when gently
Dunking a spatula into your batter
(Be sure beater is AT REST before checking).
Sprinkle in cake flour (package B)
A little at a time on LOWEST setting
(Don’t forget to scrape the bottom and edges).
Pour batter into your ungreased tube pan,
Cut through batter gently with a butter knife
In a circular motion
To eliminate air bubbles.
Bake for at least thirty minutes
Or until top crust is golden brown
(Ovens vary so keep your eye on it at all times).
Cool by hanging tube pan upside down on bottle,
Loosen by making up and down strokes with spatula or knife.
Gently remove your cake.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:23 PM UTC
I remember mornings at your house,
sunshine pouring over me through the floral drapes,
forcing me to scrunch my to return to darkness.
Then, the sweet smells hit my nose
and my eyes were wide open.
Sizzling, frying, and your humming hit my ears.
I pulled myself out of bed
that I had so carefully been tucked in to,
and I made my way into the kitchen.
There you stood, with such poise,
Moving with sixty-five years of grace
through steam and grease.
You swayed around the stove,
Danced from *** to pan,
armed with a fork in your left hand
and a spatula in your right.
You turned and saw me there, in the doorway,
both of us smiling.
We shared our good mornings
and you poured a tall glass of milk
for me.
I sat, waiting, watching
you spin around the kitchen,
stirring, scrambling, flipping,
with such purpose that the sweat
on your forehead went unnoticed.
You filled my plate with pancakes, eggs, and bacon;
golden brown, scrambled, and crispy,
the way I like it.
You didn’t eat.
Only sipped your coffee and smiled.
Now, here I’m standing,
fumbling, burning and cursing,
Preparing bacon and eggs
over my cheap electric stove,
and I’m barely beginning to understand
the reasons your breakfast tasted so good.
Dec 3, 2011
Dec 3, 2011 at 4:06 AM UTC
"What kind of a person are you," I heard them say to me.
I'm a person with a complex plumbing of the soul,
Sophisticated instruments of feeling and a system
Of controlled memory at the end of the twentieth century,
But with an old body from ancient times
And with a God even older than my body.
I'm a person for the surface of the earth.
Low places, caves and wells
Frighten me. Mountain peaks
And tall buildings scare me.
I'm not like an inserted fork,
Not a cutting knife, not a stuck spoon.
I'm not flat and sly
Like a spatula creeping up from below.
At most I am a heavy and clumsy pestle
Mashing good and bad together
For a little taste
And a little fragrance.
Arrows do not direct me. I conduct
My business carefully and quietly
Like a long will that began to be written
The moment I was born.
s Now I stand at the side of the street
Weary, leaning on a parking meter.
I can stand here for nothing, free.
I'm not a car, I'm a person,
A man-god, a god-man
Whose days are numbered. Hallelujah.
3.2k
I am the trusted family spatula,
the curve in a Slinky,
the light refracted from antique shoppe crystal,
the distrust that sits at the back of the mind while reading a movie review,
the subtle humidity of the end of spring that goes without remark.
Also, I'm a flamingo.
Never forget that.
May 30, 2010
May 30, 2010 at 12:13 AM UTC
"This is a song..."
"This is uhh, This is a new song..."
"It's through the eyes of one of the greatest people alive, I feel..."
"The Lunchlady"
[Laughing]
Woke up in the morning
Put on my new plastic glove
Served some reheated salisbury steak
With a little slice of love
Got no clue what the chicken *** pie is made of
Just know everything's doing fine
Down here in Lunchlady Land
Well I wear this net on my head
'Cause my red hair is fallin' out
I wear these brown orthopedic shoes
'Cause I got a bad case of the gout
I know you want seconds on the corndogs
But there's no reason to shout
Everybody gets enough food
Down here in Lunchlady Land
Well yesterday's meatloaf is today's sloppy joes
And my breath reeks of tuna
And there's lots of black hairs coming out of my nose
In Lunchlady Land your dreams come true
Clouds made of carrots and peas
Mountains built of shepherds pie
And rivers made of macaroni and cheese
But don't forget to return your trays
And try to ignore my gum disease
No student can escape the magic of Lunchlady Land
Hoagies & grinders, hoagies & grinders
Hoagies & grinders, hoagies & grinders
Navy beans, navy beans, navy beans
Hoagies & grinders, hoagies & grinders
Navy beans, navy beans
Meatloaf sandwich
sloppy joe, slop, sloppy joe
sloppy joe, slop, sloppy joe
sloppy joe, slop, sloppy joe
sloppy joe, slop, sloppy joe
Well I dreamt one morning
That I woke up to see
All the pepperoni pizza
Was a-looking at me
It screamed, why do you burn me
And serve me up cold
I said I got the spatula
Just do what you're told
Then the liver & onions
Started joining the fight
And the chocolate pudding
Pushed me with all its might
And the chop suey slapped me
And it kicked me in the head
It's called revenge Lunchlady
Said the garlic bread
I said what did I do
To make you all so mad
They said you got flabby arms
And your breath is bad
Then the green beans said
You better run and hide
But then my friend sloppy joe came
And joined my side
He said if it wasn't for the Lunchlady
The kids wouldn't eatcha
You should be shakin' her hand
And sayin' please to meet ya
She gives you a purpose
And she gives you a goal
You should be kissin' her feet
And kissin' her mole
Now all the angry foods
Just leave me alone
And we all live together
In a happy home
Thanks to
sloppy joe, slop, sloppy joe
sloppy joe, slop, sloppy joe
sloppy joe, slop, sloppy joe
sloppy joe, slop, sloppy joe
[Spoken]
Well me & sloppy joe got married
We got six kids and we're doing' just fine
Down in Lunchlady Land
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 6:45 PM UTC
Do you ever think that life could be more?
That we are sitting,
doing nothing,
that life is passing us by?
Sometimes,
I feel remorse
for having had children so young,
for not having adventured
beforehand.
I want some adventure!
But all I see ahead of me is
Tameness.
I wish I had had a chance to go out into the
Wilderness
and just lived,
moment by moment.
I'm afraid I will die,
regretting that I never once lived.
(If I were a wealthy man, this might be the beginning of my mid life crisis.)
What is it called when a woman feels the panic of settledness coming upon her?
There is no name.
There is only the feeling of the sameness of days going by,
the aloneness of standing here,
surrounded by routine,
by repetition.
While the desire to jump,
to plunge, into the unknown,
beats steady on in my chest,
and the knowing that
That moment,
That chance,
Has passed me by.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
Spatula and bourbon paint with blood,
In an attempt to woo Dracula’s mud.
Walking down an alley cat zoo,
Along came Sid with Captain Voodoo.
Painting, decorating, sanding and building,
Cleaning mountain goat’s spectacular guilding.
Given a job however dull and blue,
Being a decorator is what you should do.
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 2:39 AM UTC
"So all of this was because you liked me?"
"No, my love,
when I sang Ave Maria to wake you up to see you,
when I complained about the peach fuzz on your chin,
when I called you a ***** *** and that all you want is a hole to bone,
when I teased you for the way you say "hackneyed,"
when I walked over to smell and "guess" your shampoo (I'd known already),
when I let you cheat on games,
when I made fun of the constant holes in your socks,
when I decided to learn about baseball to figure out what so great about it,
and when I smacked you on the leg with a spatula for getting cheeky with me in the kitchen...
those were because I liked you.
But when I woke up two hours before you to make you breakfast,
when I sing sad love songs to you in my imagination,
when my tread skips a beat,
when I got so angry that someone talked bad about you
and I wanted to ******* rip their meaty heads off,
when my heart breaks to hear your hardships,
when I stayed up with you until 3:00 in the morning on the roof before I gave up
or again until 5:00 in the morning indoors a week before you left
when I didn't move away from you when our arms touched,
when I learned you stood up proudly gay in this brave new world
when I see you on an angle and you look so serious,
so pensive, so handsome and I sigh, sigh, sigh from afar
those were because I loved you.
And the list can go on and on and on."
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 10:50 PM UTC
she doesn't like her eggs like that!
she steals the spatula from dad's hand and slices open the yolk dad had preserved
I hear my name being called from inside the kitchen every three and a half minutes
briana don't forget
briana you have to do this
take us to the airport tomorrow morning
we have to leave by 8:30 am
dad what do I do about my car
take it back he says
and he yells at me
and that's how I know I am home
so I disappear into my room to light up a joint I've been saving
he gets a question right on jeopardy
two commercial breaks later he tells me a story
about bejing
and that's how he knew the answer to that question
and I said okay
and he said isn't that weird that I can remember that
and I looked away and thought
no, because you have aspergers
honey, don't forget to take your digestive supplement
okay mom
ok
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 8:51 PM UTC
I think that a Bar-B-Q is an extension of a guys manliness.
Or manhood.
Now before all of you start disagreeing with me,
listen to this blondes logic.
When a man goes to purchase a grill
There are many factors a man has to take into consideration.
And they are, in this order, as follow:
1. Propane vs. Charcoal and Charcoal Fluid
2. The size of the grill
3. Rotisserie?
4. Accessories
5. Bar-B-Q covers
Let us take each consideration in turn.
Propane vs. Charcoal and Charcoal Fluid.
Propane men:
Some men want instant gratification. Twist a **** or two, push a button here and instant heat. Give it a few minutes to build to the right temperature and BAM! In with the meat. Once done, turn a **** or two and walk away. No muss. No fuss.
Charcoal men:
Other men are more inclined to take their time. savor the experience. They enjoy watching the flames build and turn into a glowing bed of meat searing heat. When everything is just right, they gently place the meat. They stand gaurd over it. Tending to it. Every once in a while poking it to test if it's ready. These same men will sometimes sit snuggled around the glowing embers afterwards. Watching the heat fade and cool. Then they will ask their woman they had served "How'd you like your steak babe?"
Charcoal Fluid And Men:
Some men should never be allowed near a Bar-B-Q that requires something to stimulate the flames. It always ends in disaster and or injury.
Size Of The Bar-B-Q:
O.K. Now this is a touchy subject for most men. It has been known to cause envy, jealousy and has broken up a marriage or two. Men think bigger is better.
When buying a Bar-B-Q , a man thinks about; cooking area, the possible need for side burners, portability, and the all important factor of presentation. That's right. How will it look to the neighbors and guests? Will they be properly impressed with it? Also, can it handle the extra meat when company comes over? Heaven forbid it should let him down and make him look foolish.
Rotisserie:
This is an important decision. Does having your meat spin make it better? I think that this is more of an individual decision.
Accessories:
Now we have reached a critical point. How to accessorize. Of course, every man needs the right equipment to ensure success. And all of the tools need to have a long reach and be durable.
Tongs, fork, knife, spatula, basting brush.
Some men even splurge and go for a flavor injector. Now that's a man who cares about his meat.
Bar-B-Q Cover:
Finally we reach the last consideration a man has to make. To cover or not to cover?
Men! Always, with out fail, should cover. It is for their own protection. And it shows you care.
Thank you.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 10:50 AM UTC
In the bedroom,
We fooling a-round; no bored games.
******* her from behind, she getting chest pains.
love is pain; and you, are,
loving my pain.
so I’m glad you came;
all over me like a spatula.
Working on our cardiovascular.
going harder; doing it even faster.
Best part of my game.
Telling me ‘YES” and I ain’t asking her,
But she calling my name.
She coming again; I’m trying to outlast her.
I pulled her hair, to hold her back;
and she came - screaming GO FASTER!!!
Scratching my back, pain for pain,
Coming together, tantalizing
Fantasizing. I've realized
we've arrived-n, she’s just realizing
So satisfied: the vibes, mesmerizing
I can see it in her eyes-n; it's getting deep.
Forget what they said about size,
she's surprised; what matters most, is: what’s on the insides!
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 9:07 PM UTC
by Kim Addonizio
I have been one acquainted with the spatula,
the slotted, scuffed, Teflon-coated spatula
that lifts a solitary hamburger from pan to plate,
acquainted with the ******** known as the Pocket Rocket
and the ***** that goes by Tex,
and I have gone out, a drunken *****
in order to ruin
what love I was given,
and also I have measured out
my life in little pills—Zoloft,
Restoril, Celexa,
Xanax.
I have. For I am a poet. And it is my job, my duty
to know wherein lies the beauty
of this degraded body,
or maybe
it's the degradation in the beautiful body,
the ugly me
groping back to my desk to ****
on perfection, to lay my kiss
of mortal confusion
upon the mouth of infinite wisdom.
My kiss says razors and pain, my kiss says
America is charged with the madness
of God. Sundays, too,
the soldiers get up early, and put on their fatigues in the blue-
black day. Black milk. Black gold. Texas tea.
Into the valley of Halliburton rides the infantry—
Why does one month have to be the cruelest,
can't they all be equally cruel? I have seen the best
gamers of your generation, joysticking their M1 tanks through
the sewage-filled streets. Whose
world this is I think I know.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
Chili Powder infiltrates my kitchen
Oh boy Oh boy This is bitchen
I Flip the switch to Domestic Housewife
sharp knifes and measuring cups
I reach untop of the stove
to Find my Spatula
Flip my meat I got cooking
check the clock
as my buzzer rings
I stir the crock ***
My onions are suateed
My face is melting
But cooking
relieves me
I know that this will all pay off
when my friends walk in
Super Bowl Sunday
Even Jesus would sport sweatpants and his favorite teams Jersey
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 2:56 PM UTC
she firmly
runs her
wet hand
up and down
down and up
its slippery
length
before placing
the spatula
on the cloth
to dry
~mce
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
I made a 12 egg omelet for dinner
Not just for me, mind you,
But stuffed with milk, garlic, onion and two cheeses
Half as big as our whale sized pan and oh solo cheesy
It was such a delightfully delicious omelet
But of course, I couldn't make a beautiful thing without a dash of pain
Once, twice, thrice, four times I gripped that accursed handle
I burnt my fingers so the places where I grip my own are now slightly leathered
Sighing with exasperation, I lean across for the spatula and
ZING what do you know?
One more stripe of seared flesh on the forearm
Of course it hurt (when does fire not burn?)
But now I can't help but laugh, as the undersides of my fingers feel like a wallet
And my forearm a new splash of paint
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
*Standing like a fried potato
Turning black spitting out smoke
By the red flaming words of fire
No spatula to take me out
From the evil pan of teacher
Taken by the chief of hands
Thrown out into the garbage
Making me a burnt potato
Way to the washroom of sink
Back to her class of stove
With a clean nefarious smile*
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 12:29 AM UTC
Open up a can of humans into bowl.
Add dashes of corruption and manipulation.
With a cup of the government, pour it slowly and discrete.
Dont forget to add money, taxes, high politics.
With a bag of bullets,
Drop about 20 deaths per minute.
You will need 2 tablespoons of police brutality, child abuse, ****
3 cups of pollution and overcrowd toxic factories.
With spatula,
Flip over green gardens and wildlife.
Flatten it with concrete and buildings.
Chop up living creatures and get rid of any access fresh produce.
Add this to the chain of fast foods and overly priced merchandize.
While stirring, don't forget to add rigged votes.
Once mixed, bake in tanning bed till fake golden brown.
Make sure it isn't black.
Let it rise, but not plus size.
Take it out and stagger around it putting it on social media,
Retweeting, tagging, sharing, liking.
Let it cool then glaze it with conspiracy theories then you're done.
Enjoy America.
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 4:25 PM UTC