I don’t believe you.
There’s no way you could have
fended off those velociraptors
and their inter-dimensional captors
with a spork and a water gun.

No, you didn’t go into the matrix,
or find an heirloom of the Norse,
or find a cure for when your throat gets hoarse.

You most certainly did not bring forth
Satan with a glass-blown tuning fork
and those pictures you have are photoshopped.

A seismograph cannot detect a pulse
from that distance, you would have to be close,
so it did not help you defeat the devil,
which you’re undoubtedly making up as well.

You cannot throw marshmallows
into black holes, you would be crushed
by the gravity, far sooner than pushed
within marshmallowing range.

You did not ****, nor disembowel
a mutant roll of paper towel
nor did you invent the interrobang.

I wish you would just please quit trying
to convince me that you came back from dying
especially after you weren’t mauled by a bobcat.

You did not inject yourself with nanobots,
or anonymously author a Times Best-Seller
about the struggling wife of a poor bank teller.

Stop deluding yourself, Johnny, it was only a dream.
Son, go back to sleep.

You're a mad rapper
I'm a mad hatter
Ideas in my head always bleeding
So lyrics you won't be needing
You spit them
I write them
You rap them
I rhyme them
Lines we be exchanging
Like I'd be interchanging
The lanes fast on the freeway
Paving the roads leading away
From the ghetto
Like Pinocchio was to Geppetto
We be each others woodwork
Combined we be the spork
Together in our minds
Like buns on girls behinds
We ain't getting lost
Whatever the cost
We'll stay in the light
Never fly stay and fight
Cause we be the illest
Cough Cough we infect the rest
Wanting to be part of the fuss
They try and copy 'r' us
But they will never ever
Be as swift or as clever...
© okpoet

Every now and again, I think about where my dad might be, and what he might be doing at the very moment in which I think of him. “No dignity, no duty,” I remember my Grandfather saying. We, meaning my mom and I, think that his current dwelling is south, somewhere in Arizona. Maybe alone, maybe with a recent girlfriend who hasn’t realized how two-faced he is yet. It went something like this: when I was the little old age of three, he decided to leave me, my mom, and my sister. He said we were an expense not worth retaining. Having us around couldn’t pay back the debt he owed from his failing business proposition, the invention of a hybrid eating utensil that combined a fork, spoon, and knife together to increase the amount of table room at restaurants and finer consumption establishments for large parities of impatient patrons. His “would-be” investors claimed they already had the “spork” and that hybrid eating utensils were a thing of the past. He cursed the world, anointing the words “*******, I'll make it... I'll make it big somewhere else," and simply was gone ever since.

“Your father is a very bad man,” My mother explained to my watering eye. “I hereby excommunicate him from this family. We are going to love each other in this house.”

“What’s ex-chum-oon-eh-cating mean?” I asked diligently, wiping a tear.

“It’s what the Christian Church does to people who have been naughty. You’ll learn all about those religious doctrines in school, when you’re older. We’ll talk about it then little Bugaboo.”

And I was off to bed.

Uncle Sam reclines and unwinds
In his Adirondack chair
The Statue of Liberty reminds the Mater at Arms
Of the time when he was put in a peyote trance
It was only then he caught on
He rammed his head against his headboard every night
Wracking your brain, trying to wrap it around the concept of the excommunication of those who have had their mouths washed out with soap

There will be no fanfare for the stray lambs
They are only meal tickets for the clergy
Concord grapes and word of mouth
Raise the question, "what is in a hot dog?"

Don't latch on to me after I dance with you into mad denial under a brass florescent chandelier in front of all the stock brokers and shareholders
I'll dismantle your silver lining with a spork

The  cow pies disappear due to erosion

It's good to see you, I didn't know burlap sacks were all the rage right now
Stencil your name on it for good measure
How do you feel after your ego death?

Loner of the planet
Where dreams give way to musing,
Flemditation and Jarvoy,
Living with Jhello made of peppers, hot,
Loons scouring cobbled city streets
Frankenfood
Well treated with modelparse wine,
Reflecserve chortling along in
Hollogramorphing
phenoflutes;
Plan to watch a mockumentary,
broken by the doorbell -
A fairy telegram:
Invite to brunch
From Trolly,
Best friend, the only,
One to teach me
How to use my spork.
Glad to lose the smog of this morn,
I dress-up cheching the mirror:
Great a fit of my suithalf.

Lisa and I finally tested covid-free! When we saw our results, we began an impromptu dance that felt like levitation.

Although my covid case seemed much milder, Lisa’s been nothing but supportive. Why just yesterday morning, before we tested, Lisa said, “If you test covid-free before I do, I’ll **** you.” She was holding a spork which gave the threat a specific gravity it might otherwise have lacked.
“Back off, Sweeny,” I said.

We worked the next day, masked - just in case - and I’d swear that Rebecca, my surgeon, almost smiled when she saw me. As funny as Rebecca is, off-hours, once she puts on that white coat - forgetaboutit - she goes to some other, humor-free zone.

That night, we went out to our favorite bar to celebrate our Lazarus-like resurrections.

In the club, as we were walking to the bar, Lisa asked me, “What if we get carded?” I gasped. Never, have I EVER been carded. To even suggest the possibility is to risk breaking a spell that has lasted since I was fifteen years old and first walked in the adult-bar world.

It’s not that I look old, I’ve been told I don't look 21 (although I’m almost 20) - but in dark, bar-light - I just look “right,” like I belong. And let's face it, no bar turns away college girls or charges them a cover - we’re good for business.

I put a hand on Lisa’s shoulder and stopped us in our tracks. “Turn around three times,” I said.
“Why?” She asked. “To break the god-****, bad luck, vu doo you just put on us!” I said exasperatedly. She shrugged and started to turn in a circle. Again I took her by the shoulders, “Counter-clockwise,” I instructed, “don’t you know anything?!” Once she’d broken the jinx, we were free to go on.  The next part can only be poetry.

Behind the bar were shelves of bottles, brightly lit,
with pastel glows that shame the merely silver moon.
Red rums, golden bourbons, begging you to commit,
elixirs that dull every pain and brighten every mood.
Give us your tired, your lonely, and like Houdini
we’ll invoke fun with mystical treats like martinis.

We were basking in those lantern-like glows, like tourists, in heaven, when a bartender said, “What can I get you?” How generous those words were, how open and inviting.

“What’s your name?” I asked, he was wearing a name tag but I leaned in and gave him my friendliest smile. It’s important to establish a personal connection - but you can’t get carried away. He might be gay and decide you’re trailer.

“Brian,” he said. Brian was talking to me, but then he’d noticed Lisa and suddenly, he couldn’t take his eyes off her (Lisa’s an adriana). This bartender wasn’t gay at ALL.

I handed him my black, Centurion, American Express card “Can we set a tab for us?” I motioned to include Lisa, “and please include a 30% tip for yourself.” I smiled. He smiled.
“Oh, and there’ll be a gentleman joining us as well (Charles).”
“Sure.” he said, as he swiped the card on his iPad, adding, “now, what are you having?”

I’m a bit of a bon vivant, where cocktails are concerned but tonight, we’ll keep it vanilla.
“We’ll start with a Cherry coke (for Charles) and,” I looked at Lisa for approval, “Two American Martinis?” She smiled, “Please,” I added, putting my card away.
The coke is psychologically important; it gives the bartender what’s called 'plausible deniability.’
“Do you have a menu?” I said, as he turned to go. “Coming right up,” he said.

We were on a rooftop terrace that overlooked the Boston skyline. To the left, there were tables enclosed in glowing, geodesic bubbles that changed colors and off to the right, a dance space where couples were dancing, and a DJ was spinning ‘Sorja Smith’s - Little things.’

Our drinks arrived and Lisa and I laughingly toasted our covid survival.
At that moment, at least, everything seemed right with the world.

A while plastic spork
Met three silver spoons last night
Stuck-up spoons are dumb

Several years have passed,
Since I entered last,
It all went by too fast,
But what is past, is past,

To roll down one's cheek,
Like a little blue streak,
To be all but meek,
About being chique,

To fall in love with a boy,
To tease and be coy,
To be bored out of your mind,
and to play with a toy,

To move and relocate,
The urge to populate,
To quietly suffocate and,
To want to defenestrate,

To tap and to pop,
And cafeteria slop,
Ask about a sad mop,
And to epicly  rock,

To create a playlist,
and to tease balled fists,
To hide amongst swollen mist,
And not to have time on your wrist,

To drop a spork,
and to study a cork,
In order to work,
And to stalk Bjork,

Which brings us to now,
And I don't know how,
With the time I'm allowed,
Through these lines, I quickly plowed,

i love
i scheme
i was just a bad dream
i'm out of tune
out of whack
i stab myself in the eye with
an imaginary spork
can't find
the real thing
so i do a victory march,
not really pretending
wear my heart on my sleeve,
a faded t-shirt that says
"you shouldn't do that"
afraid to get stabbed in the chest,
i bleed myself dry inside ancient armor
stumble as i wear all five tons of it to bed
can't see
all the deepest scratches are from the claws on the inside
dragons may roam within,
but i'm no knight
rinse
repeat
same story
younger lips
ablaze
until i'm south when i should be facing west
off-axis
off-kilter
can't
make you
wanna stay
so now it's 2 am
and i watch as you ****
the promise of our unborn child with a single stabbing sigh
all because
i'm out of tune
out of whack
i loved
i scheme
i was just your bad dream.

Slip
this sliver of if
Into the eye of my
Slim chances
To be

Blips of the abyss
Bifurcate the I
Am

What I would give to feel again

Adrenaline limps in unedited
Taxed synapse -glitchy-
You have zero messages

Only if
The times were mine

Gotta look alive lithe
signs signs
That's all we are

static designs
made for Likes
Stuck under the stab of cheap tines
Of a spork sticking the I-am
Waiting to be consumed

We said hello that night long ago
Where I fell in love and didn't even know.
You bat your lashes and give me that smile,
You have no idea that you drive me wild.
You always tell me lava, a cute way to show your love. Always followed with the most amazing kisses ad hugs.
But you won't ask me the question I want to hear the most. To show some commitment and for me to be able to boast.
Then I find that you have another girl. When you were the center of my world. It looks like you are stringing me along. She doesn't even know of me, how long has this gone on.
I try to keep my cool and keep it all inside, no matter how it hurts I stay by your side.
Through the other girls, the people that you meet. I keep my smile shining bright even with my heart at my feet.
I am here beside you through all this pain.
I am here for you through the sunshine and the rain.
You say you are leaving and we will be miles apart.
You don't understand you already have my heart.
You can be in Kansas, Kentucky or New York. Or sitting right beside me eating with a spork.
You always make me smile which is why I stick around.
You have my heart with you and that is bringing me down.
I just need to remember that sometimes it's better to let go.
I need to say goodbye and find my next hello.

(a story in senryu stanzas)

I get migraines.
- lucky me - glare can set me
off within seconds.

I always have a
pair of dark, polarized shades
with me - it’s a quirk.

When I was fourteen,
we lived in Shenzhen, China
very near Macau.

Macau, China, the
“Las Vegas” of Asia, is
the home of glare.

The Ritz-Carlton, has
a glittering galaxy
of bright chandeliers.

Those chandeliers move,
their silhouettes change shape - just
stab me with a spork.

Did I mention the
Mirrors? Every wall served to
magnify the light.

“You look awful,” my
mom said - our two week booking
became ten minutes.

“I just need sunnies,
those would work,” then I gasped
“I’ll look glamorous!”

We changed hotels, but
what a small world - my roommate
Leong grew up there.

We could have passed in
the yè shì as teenagers
and now we're roommates.
.
.
sunnies = sunglasses (UK slang)
yè shì = night market (simplified Chinese)

And join (singing the words
in the next paragraph) whether alone
in a traffic jam
basting, cooking, then eating a lamb
prepared by thee missus
a superb culinary madam.

“A Ram Sam Sam” Lyrics
A ram sam sam, a ram sam sam
Guli guli guli guli guli ram sam sam
A ram sam sam, a ram sam sam
Guli guli guli guli guli ram sam sam
A rafiq, a rafiq
Guli guli guli guli guli ram sam sam
A rafiq, a rafiq
Guli guli guli guli guli ram sam sam.

The following dereliction of truth
heavily influenced
my babe of mine name Ruth
(think prevarication forsooth)
essentially crafted countless years,
when yours truly
courtesy parochialism bred cooth
preserved timeless tintype of me
many moons ago
sitting pretty (once a bonny lad)
with his innocent lass
perched on mine bony knees
while forced lip tulip in kissing booth.

Unlike centenarian
who crafts  these words,
perchance yar juiced
a young whippersnapper man or woman
maybe born, bread and raised
in the city that never sleeps,
or dwelt in the boondocks or sticks,
catch some 'possum or squirrel
and as a loyal son or daughter take a tram
to enjoy a tasty repast

with widowed momma,
cuz ever since da
yo papa passed away....,
a futile attempt made to fill that void
awash with more'n than half a century
of wedded bliss,
whereat purposelessness pervasive
per surviving mother,
who feigns happiness, regales others
with showers of affection,

and remains active feeding her avocation
comprising striving and succeeding
to be adept within the culinary arts
thru self taught trials and errors
of brave taste testers
(which guinea pigs ought
to get medal of honor for bravery),
though her exemplary cooking reputation
exceeds five star Michelin rating
through meticulous

and exacting measured ingredients,
she glides within the kitchen
however occasionally,
a fork and spoon slips to the floor
which inexplicable
gravitational alchemical phenomena
fuses separate pieces of cutlery
into one eating implement
whereupon a dead reckoning
takes shape, that "mum"

might be in mortal danger
per inconspicuous cooking tool,
whence ya stop SnapChat tin
and shutterfly as greased BuzzFeed
twittering like a bat out of hell -
ya swoop down smash mouth facebook first
presaging a fatality visiting  
upon the head of mum
(her christened name Chris Anne thumb -
the last appended word

linked with her diminutive size),
who intently engrossed,
keenly self absorbed,
and rapt attentively
with tasks at hand
most likely oblivious
to potential safety dukes of hazard
as a benevolent offspring temporarily
take instagram reprieve,
and utilize fancy footwork

tote hillbilly tubular re: turn
to counterpoise vis a vis
match less laws of physics,
whereby toe tulle lee tubular
test tick yule har kickstarter antics applied
to kindle hurly burly gnarly flatware bach up
adjacent to state of the art beet oven
which upright pedal
poised pose like leverage incorporates
quickly donning improvisational

makeshift faux cuirass
with suitable culinary accoutrements
stringing together various
geometrical metal trays
and tin *** for helmet,
whereby a strategic
stance thence established,
where inert stainless steel
buffoon glaring spork
would be forced

to take tailspin upwards,
whence fingers grab
innocuous lethal weapon,
which self entertainment learned
while stationed in a rack
run amuck mess hall rowdiness
taught said table mannered tricks
magic mike moment imitating hotmail -
glorified footlocker earthlinked craft,
where whatsapp tinder penned didst

inviting Barack Obama
to zap hiz frankfurter foot,
when he made a syrup prize visit
nobly endeavoring without evincing
auld trumpetting donning shoe purr action
trained first with dominant topface toes
alternating with recessive
opposing shod totally tubular taps
until fancy footwork became ambipedal
balancing ball of left

or right foot atop tine
or dish of fork or spoon respectively
as stray stainless steel ware defying gravity
gracefully leapt - somersaulting
in a pirouette pinwheel linkedin arc
tine and/or miniature
shovel scooper over handle
kin ur pinion (all things considered)
an eye opening experience
and the simple pleasure one can derive
from practicing strategy
trigonometry, spatial relations.

I don’t know.
I don't know anymore.
I don’t know
What is good, what's bad
What's alright, what's not
What's yes, what's no
What's okay and what's not okay
What's life, what's death.
He'll, I don’t know
What's hell in death or heaven on earth.
What's drowning in love to someone you don’t deserve?
What's gasping for air when air is everywhere?
What's dream about sky when we have no wings to fly?
From all of the rest, why her you have to put to rest?
When her son first contact with sun,
When the fly finally able to fly
Five hours later
Come the rain of pain
Come with cloud, carrying storm with it already a house
Flew across the field of Haiti,
Killing lives, destroying things.
No more plate to put my food on
No more spoon, no more fork,
Hell, even no more spork.
So I have to use my finger
This ***** little finger
I used it to have some fun with myself
I'm gonna use it to eat now
Gross as ****.
But do I have choice?
Yeah, do you have choice?
Can you pick a and forget what b can give?
Or vice versa.
Or maybe we are too settled with A that we forgot that there is c?
Or perhaps, d until z?
Hell, even we maybe have 1,2,3
Too much choice? Pick one and regret
Pick another and repeat
Make another and make it great.
Tho my flow doesn’t actually flow,
And there's no story being told.
It just thoughts
Like a train
It went fast, faster than the rain.
Ain't nothing stopping it,
Not you, not her, not that not a thing.
Like why do you think that?
Why you? Why her? Why a thing is a thing?
Why couldn't it be a lot of bread
Or a pack of ****

Fill the saucepan with water
Fill the mind with worry
Melt the butter
Melt all the chances of a good day
Mix up the artificial cheese mix
Put on an artificial face
Pour in the noodles
As you pour away all your freedom
Mind and *** boil over
Break down
Freak out
React quickly
Change
Turn the temperature down
Stop the attacks and relax
Drain the noodles
Drain all your anxiety down the drain
Pour in the artificial cheese
Pour out the artifice me
Grab a bowl for eating
Wear it as a hat for whimsy
Spoon or fork?
How about a spork
Sits down to eat the day away
a noodle at a time

See it
Say it
Sign it
Sing it
Snort it
Short it
Sport it
Spork it
Snork it
Stalk it
Knife it
Fork it
Sort it
Sorted

Sporks, the one item we can live without.
Not like knives, spoons or forks
You must be an orc to want to use a forking spork
They are too pointy to eat soup with
and far too round to eat pulled pork with.
Sporks are more wasteful than empty garbage bags killing storks.
Sporks are more useless than the homeless of New York
My point (which sporks do not have) is
sporks are for orcs who like to mildly inconvenience society.