"tablespoons" poems
Every self defeating metaphor anyone has ever birthed
A mug of orange juice in a giant’s hand
Three tablespoons of soil that you will misidentify as dirt
A motif specific to the reader
The sound of a tree falling alone in a forest
A manual titled Insects in the Garden of Today: Pests & Benefactors
Three redwood seeds in a row without pause
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 8:53 PM UTC
I survived another day.
I will rewrite the forgotten,
before it is extinguished.
Steam in my lungs.
Carbon monoxide.
We ate honey in the morning,
to tablespoons.
We kiss without tiredness.
"Bathing together unites us," he said.
Resonant palpitations.
The guitar sounds soft.
You give me music of spirit.
I survived another day
because you breathe.
Sep 6, 2017
Sep 6, 2017 at 2:42 AM UTC
Ingredients for 6-8 people
• 4 egg whites
• 2 egg yolks
• 100 g (1/2 cup) of sugar or 5 tablespoons of fruit sugar (alter to your own preference)
• 500 g (2 1/2 cups) of mascarpone cheese
• 4 small coffee cups of espresso coffee
• marsala wine (or brandy or cognac)
• 400 g of savoiardi or lady fingers (sponge cake fingers)
• dark chocolate powder
Preparation
1. Make espresso coffee, sweeten, and add the marsala wine (or cognac) to it. Let it cool a bit.
2. Separate the egg yolks and the whites of two eggs in two bowls.
3. Beat sugar into the egg yolks.
4. Beat the mascarpone into the sweetened yolks.
5. Add two more egg whites to the other two and whisk until they form stiff peaks.
6. Fold gently egg whites into mascarpone mixture.
7. Quickly dip both sides of the ladyfingers in the espresso mixture.
8. Layer soaked ladyfingers and mascarpone in a large bowl or pan (start with fingers, finish with mascarpone).
9. Sprinkle dark chocolate powder on top.
10. Refrigerate for one hour.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 11:23 AM UTC
ingredients | serves: 1
three nights spent in a haze wrapped around each other before the fog lifted and clarity chased the glow away
five soft smiles that were lost in the limbo between want and need
two hundred and eighty four barely-there, feather-light caresses, stolen while they were asleep
two sets of heartbeats in sync with each other
one hundred and twelve sweet nothings whispered under the safety net of darkness
one song sung to you as they nursed you back to health, already stripped and chopped
four cups of air you’ve breathed into each other
seventy two fleeting moments in which you looked up at their face and you felt your stomach churn
four tablespoons of the sweat that dripped from your bodies and seeped into the sheets that first night you touched
two willing bodies
one heart
directions | preparation: 8 months
step one
gather one of the two bodies and prop it up against the wooden chair.
step two
grab the remaining body and lean it against the doorway.
step three
don’t say anything. don’t break the spell. don’t ruin the recipe. you only have one chance at this.
step four
set the temperature to slow burn for three weeks and let it simmer.
step five
once you feel the fire in your veins hot enough to melt glass, the burning in your fingers strong enough to leave a mark, and the bubble in your throat threatening to burst, imagine yourself in a block of ice and swallow up the words that try to slip past your lips. i love you. note: do not let them out.
step six
finely crush the seventy two moments where your stomach had a mind of its own. do not let it show. you can’t afford to waste those moments.
step seven
mix in the the barely-there caresses and for each lost smile, stir for an additional week, because that’s how long you’ll be thinking of them before you even realise how much space they’ve taken up inside your mind.
step eight
pour the cups of the air you’ve shared into a blender for three nights, then mix in the sweat, and place in the fridge to chill. never let them thaw. do not hurt yourself by reminiscing.
step nine
place the heart in your hands and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until the blood spills onto the broken chopping board that is your rib cage and then throw it away. an empty heart serves no purpose.
step ten
say your prayers and hope for the best.
you wanted a love potion, didn’t you?
you’re in luck, this will only cost your soul.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 5:48 AM UTC
So here we are, just you and me. On the edge of everything and nothing, we sit staring out into the ocean of things we wish we’d done.
We hold hands, it’s a formality. I’m scared. You soothed my anxiety, because even though I was scared of you, I knew everyone else was too.
I miss making you coffee in the morning, I wish I’d loved YOU more. You always had that massive mug with two teabags or two tablespoons of coffee.
I wish your family and I could have worked. Please don’t think for a second I didn’t try. Most of my time spent at yours was on eggshells, the ones they had placed.
I miss our first year, your second. Remember that? We were so silly and full of joy. Gimmick Puppets, Plants. You and your stupid trenchcoat that ended up smelling awful no matter how much you washed it. Your long hair was nice. I liked it. It framed your smile that was as bright as the Sun that set in the West over Zephyr’s strawberry field.
The light sank in your eyes the more you were with me. I drained you, I knew that. I stayed. I lied. You didn’t trust me anymore.
I’m happy, admittedly lonely. But I know you’re happy, scared but happy. It’s always been my job to appear, do what I must (whether I know what that is or not) and watch over. The bear finds another like him, and as I remember mentioning a few times, as we lounged lazily on the sofa with our cereal, playing every bit the monsters others cast us out to be;
What on Earth is a bear doing with an angel?
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 5:05 PM UTC
2 cups of insecurity
4 ounces of comparison
1 cup of dinner not eaten.
5 cups of a mind in shackles
6 tablespoons of incomprehension
2 ounces of oblivious peers
3 cups of dinner not eaten.
3 teaspoons of phantom numbers
2 cups of anxiety
4 cups of mirrors smashed to bits
1 pint of self-hatred
4 cups of dinner not eaten.
1 tablespoon of depression
6 ounces of anger
2 pints of hopelessness
3 cups of self-inflicted scars
4 teaspoons of ribs in the mirror
5 cups of fainting on the stairs
1 gallon of dinner not eaten.
6 cups of grieving families
4 tablespoons of words unspoken
3 teaspoons of tears unshed.
2 cups of dusty belongings
4 gallons of friends never made
3 teaspoons of kisses never stolen
a lifetime of words left unsaid.
Melt insecurity and comparison and mix thoroughly with dinner not eaten. Mix a mind in shackles, incomprehension, and oblivious peers and add three more cups of dinner not eaten. Crush phantom numbers and anxiety and sprinkle over batter. Take each piece of mirrors smashed to bits and poke them carefully through self-hatred. Mix with four more cups of dinner not eaten. Melt depression, anger, and hopelessness and spread them thoroughly throughout the batter. Meticulously place self-inflicted scars visibly on top of the mixture. Cover with ribs in the mirror and fainting on the stairs. Mix with one gallon of dinner not eaten. Haphazardly toss in grieving families, words unspoken, and tears unshed. Mix with dusty belongings, friends never made, and kisses never stolen. Gather a lifetime of words left unsaid in a separate container. Take it outside and bury it. Do not mark the grave site.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 11:27 PM UTC
It was a fun day,
childhood memories were being made.
My happiness showing across my face.
So many questions I had,
so many I asked.
I see pink.
Another fun-filled day.
Dad made my favorite dinner.
My excitement was bubbling.
I guess to them it was troubling.
I see pink.
Today was rainy.
I went outside.
I think I'm in trouble.
She yells "Get inside!"
She had almost gotten my hair dried.
I can tell she is annoyed.
I see pink.
They didn't care about the smile on my little face.
I guess they couldn't keep up with my pace.
I see pink.
I want it now.
I barely even begin to ask,
she is headed to the cabinet.
Plastic shot glass.
Two tablespoons later,
I see pink.
Dream, dream, dream.
Off to sleep.
Thanks for the pink.
A three year old girl who gets a thrill from fairytales.
They say I have to much energy for someone so little.
All they want is for me to sit still.
So they pour me some more Benadryl.
I see pink.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 3:15 AM UTC
i. no absolute rest
"yes, time
never did stop
for anyone."
but I add...
ii. no absolute motion
"even time itself
is an
illusion."
because
yours and mine
...dissent.
iii. backwards
maybe yesterday,
we could still
work things out.
--softer,
than lightly (3.0 x 10^8 m/s)
iv. implausibility
our foreheads wear
the cracks of our heart.
you lost your zeal,
I lost my saviour,
we lost each other,
but left
with osmium-clad
backpacks,
and collapsed
patellas.
E = mc^2.
v. our end
fact:
tomorrow
is inevitable.
fact:
screeching alarms
and lopsided bed-hair,
and chugging caramel lattes,
with precisely two tablespoons
of raw sugar--
fact:
forget among the clamour,
the shadow of your figure--
fact:
you are an
unearthed blackhole,
under the facade
of a supernova.
(your mass = 2.5(+) x greater than the sun)
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 11:01 AM UTC
I haven’t felt her
in 5 days,
I haven’t felt
how delicate
the rim of her
mouth feels
against mine,
how enticing it
is to get a taste,
I have to taste
all of her,
they way she
flows through me,
she’s mends all thats
broken, then breaks
it when she leaves,
it’s only been 5 days,
I miss the bitter taste,
the way she makes
my tongue curl
up like a slug
swallowing tablespoons,
she pulls me in,
and hangs me with
the rope she yanked,
scraping the bottom
of the barrel,
for even a scent of what
will remind me of her,
every taste
is like losing my
virginity for
the last time,
and she became
so much more
than a past-time,
so much more than
something to
pass time,
it’s been 5 days,
soon to be back
at the crack of the
new year,
she’s a constant
resolution
that I can’t wait
to break,
or is it me she can’t
wait to break,
she leaves a bitter taste
on my mind
and thoughts that flow
through my veins,
she’s someone I can
thank, she’s someone
I try so hard to forget,
she dictates and mediates,
a forged signature
on bills passed to
loved ones
that I’m okay,
but only for the night
she’s anger, she’s happiness
she paint’s crimsons kisses
on my knuckles,
and heals cardinal
crevices in my mind,
it’s only been 5 days,
I’ll see you soon
I’ll taste you soon
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 2:30 PM UTC
You came to stay
from the very first day
And I let you in
Cause with you, I felt peace within
You bring me happiness
when I am buried in sadness
you can make me smile anytime
as if i've made lemonade of life's lime
But my goals you inhibit
Cause you make me addicted
And I'll fight, fight and resist
to let myself taste a little bit
But once again I fail
another one you win
A process I thought I was gonna nail
but this feeling of a sin
is just going up the scale
The perfect mix of good and bad
Is litterally the best thing I've ever had
In this zone, with just you and me
I hope that none else will see
How many tablespoons I ate
Of the most delicious chocolate spread
May 6, 2021
May 6, 2021 at 9:15 PM UTC
anger pie ingredients:
2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
8 tablespoons butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes and frozen
4 tablespoons vegetable shortening, in small pieces, frozen
8 tablespoons very cold cream cheese, in small pieces
1/3 cup ice-cold water
3 skinned kittens (preferably still kind of alive)
1 cup dead Armenian tears
1/4 cup potato starch
1/2 teaspoon almond extract
1 tablespoon butter, in small pieces
1 seven year old, lightly beaten
1 1/2 tablespoons sugar
directions:
1.Take ingredients
2. Stare at the until the scorn bursts them into flames
3. Force feed it to a dying cancer patient
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 8:50 PM UTC
I am oatmeal with
two tablespoons of sugar topped with
a strawberry freshly sliced, thin enough to
slip between my lips and slide
down my throat
without me having to chew
I am trying my best not to spit out seeds.
I am a pair of faded shorts
a charcoal cotton sweater
an ugly red scarf and a pair of
frayed black Toms, but
sometimes I am a vintage dress
or camouflage pants, and
some days I am a string of pearls
I am still trying to find the perfect shoes.
I am a Philippine history book
repeating the same mistakes
refusing to learn from those who
now kiss cool marble
but there are days when I take
three steps forward where
I see they took one step back.
I am trying to scrape off towers to read the letters
our grandfathers wrote in the dirt.
I am a missing pencil
that drew lines and traced figures
under the bed and wrote
stories of empty seats being filled
and now that the fountain pens have dried up
I've been found.
I am scared, but I am giving until my lead runs out.
I am a fervent prayer
longing for redemption to win
and for the fighting to end
please, I just want to see
hearts beating to the rhythm of
the stars being breathed into place
I am hope,
or I am trying to be, I am
trying to be a lot of other things still
testing, still throwing, still keeping.
But most of all, I am still
the choices I make and
maybe tomorrow I'll have
some rice and tapa
and a lightly salted sunny side up
instead of oatmeal and I promise,
I won't be spitting out any seeds.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC
one cup of insecurity
two tablespoons of jealousy
three packets of paranoia
ten ounces of anxiety
a small pinch of pride and
just a hint of insanity
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 3:36 AM UTC
If my life were a recipe
I feel like every ingredient would be followed
by the word "optional".
8 hours of sleep (optional)
Two to three meals a day (optional)
1 social life (optional)
1 job (optional)
A handful of friends (optional)
A pinch of creativity (optional)
One cup of laughter (optional)
Three heaped tablespoons of positivity (optional)
You get the idea.
But you're different.
You're the one ingredient I can't do without.
You're the one thing that matters
when I can't be bothered with the rest of it.
When all the chopping and sautéing and boiling
and grilling of everyday life
seems like too much hassle,
there's always enough time for you.
You're my quick-fix meal on a weekday evening.
You're a mid-morning snack
snatched between errands.
A quiet evening in on a Saturday
with a bottle of wine and Joni Mitchell playing
"I could drink a case of you".
I could cook you every night.
You're comfort food at its finest
unpretentious, convenient.
Never bland and never tiresome.
You're the one ingredient I'll always have in stock,
that one I'll never let myself run out of.
Because you cannot be substituted.
You, and only you, are not optional.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
I hope that your the one.
Accompanying tomorrow into today.
The time shared from one conversation to the next.
Painting vivid pictures in each other's eyes.
The moments where time stands still, sitting in each other's embrace.
Rushing to get to the phone, hoping that you'd pick up soon as it rings.
Relaying different thoughts, new things to think about.
How much I've missed you, when could we meet again. Do we require permission to do the things we keep to ourselves.
The smiles that reveal how close we keep each other in thought.
The way you look wearing my favorite color.
The start of our imagination getting the best of us.
Spending time with you, becoming my favorite habit.
The smell of my cologne staining your shirt.
The times when all you need is a look. A slight procrastination that leads into different topic of conversation.
The comfort of voices revealed in low tones.
The perfect day dream, your head laid on a pillow.
A random date somewhere out of the ordinary. Drive in movie. Arms stetched out, pretending to fly like we're kids again.
Big head pretty girl pictured perfectly in my dreams, a pack of starburst filled with pink wrapping.
Real life situations seen as practical. Late night conversations, the need to vent.
Not a thing to do but listen to you speak your mind.
The build up of stress from work, fake friends, the perfect invitation to relate to your favorite vice.
Not everything has to be about *** I want you for you.
Imagining you walk from one room to the next.
The spark of intellectual stimulation, aspiration, the reasons I miss you as much as I do.
The fragrant aroma of your skin lingering, an incense of thought wrapping around the senses.
Waking up finding myself still in a dream.
A kiss to wake up to. Ensuring the future.
The sun peeping through closed blinds, the wiggling of toes.
The smell of decaf. Coffee in the morning.
Fitting perfectly inside the cup of my hands, the swirl of cream, a couple tablespoons of sugar, swirling about in perfect motion.
This is how I picture us together.
All in perplexed but interesting truth.
The simplicity of it all
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 11:30 AM UTC
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
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 12:13 PM UTC
You're in love with a rotting Ginsberg
The desert's tanks are overturned
and your motifs are stale
Fooled into the belief that anyone cares
That clumsy wordplay is acceptable
or that your name carries weight
It's the same piece, week after week
With drugs in your system
and stoic aromanticism
How do you expect to write a novel
When ideas melt in tablespoons
or are blown in dusty clubs
You sit and watch rain fall in archaic gravel pits
By a window, long overdue for cleaning
and Jandek plays mournfully
Watch as that jaundice coloured sky opens
When the winds overturn dustbins
and form trash streams, ironic
Another languid day you waste on cannabis and ennui
Whilst the world burns; it's people raving
and the war is raging
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 10:08 AM UTC
sometimes, all you can do is feel small.
breath held, for the slightest exhale could be of the wrong tone—
just silence.
silence.
silence speaks louder than words, so, silence.
but even that— sometimes too sweet on the tongue, too many tablespoons of sugar.
silence too sweet like sugar cane stinging the back of your throat.
silence.
just silence.
Mar 23, 2021
Mar 23, 2021 at 9:49 PM UTC
**One mug- earth
2 tablespoons Cocoa mix- people
1 cup boiled water- society
1 mini marshmallow- me**
1. Place the mix inside of the mug.
2. Pour the water into the mug, and mix it until the cocoa is completely dissolved.
3. Drop in the marshmallow, and continuously dunk it into the scorching hot water until it dissolves.
4. Enjoy perfection!
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 8:29 AM UTC
Amid the glory times of darkness,
Sitting on the edge of the white tablecloth,
Brilliant white from bleached soaking, and stained with yesterdays
Clouds and air of desperation, was the cup, the coffee cup,
Its broken flower coloration, its yellowish hue,
Half full of what was once blistering hot, now the juice of warmth
And the morning begins its wakening time.
Four burners atop the gas stove, each with its black *** stand,
Covered with blackened skillets, grease from the bacon, popping
And sizzling and bringing the best of the day together,
With the tablespoons of lard, from the five gallon silver bucket,
Covered in white stained T-towels, and the shallow bowl in which you washed your hands.
You dried your hands, loosely, leaving each damp and warm,
As the biscuit dough was rolled, and broken up, and pinched into the skillet
And then placed, with ringing noise,
Deep within the ovens hole, no light there, and you could smell
It all cooking, and see the hands that made it,
With their wrinkles of days of and months and years,
Making the breakfast of today, just as if it had made, no; it had made
For many years.
Bacon grease taken up on the tablespoon, and poured into the other skillet
Black, and hot, and making that little sizzling noise, as the bacon fried,
The biscuits backed, and the flours was spread in the skillet,
Browning, hard little clumps; stirred around, spoon on the pan,
And the milk poured from the quart jar, which was left on the porch this morning with four others,
Before life as we knew it began, and the spoon turning, the heat from the stove
Almost too much, and the gravy was stirred and turned, and stirred,
Thickened up, burner down, and a dozen eggs cracked into the fourth skillet,
Bubbling and popping, bacon taken up, put on a plate, the gravy stirred again,
Biscuits pulled, placed on a potholder, their greasy tops looking fine and brown,
Fresh butter, salt and pepper, breakfast was made again.
For the umpteenth time in this umpteenth world.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
In a time before people, at the dawn of man kind.
"They" were brewing us, body and mind.
A sprinkle of wit and a pinch of good luck.
"Please pass down the emotional muck".
Some of "they" were good at what they had to do.
Some of them less exact, careless in making our stew.
Going to the extremes was a favorite of a few.
And that is why Some of us are very blue.
"Ill throw in A pinch of zest and a bucketful of sorrow, and an
Annoying tendency to always want to borrow."
"My favorite recipe is: charisma, good looks and toxic waste"
"Ya know! The ones that usually attract the goodhearted that are keen to make haste"
"And my favorite one is for the ones always pursuing what isn't meant to be"
"The recipe calls for 2 tablespoons of ambition I think i'll put in three"
Such is the talk in their heavenly sphere
Perhaps things aren't all that different down here?
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 9:29 PM UTC
1 cup jitters
3 cups drained confidence
6 stalks worry, finely chopped
2 tablespoons crushed hope
6 cups toxic shock
2 slices defrosted denial
1 leaf shredded Roe v. Wade
6 seared As-salāmu ʿalaykum
1 can LGBT despair
3 pints refried refugees
Marinated anger
DACA pain
Stir jitters and confidence to coat.
Sauté worry, blend shock and denial.
Combine dread and crushed hope.
Transfer all to a crockpot.
Fold in Roe v. Wade.
Cook on high for 6 hours.
Pour stew into large bowl.
Garnish with grief.
Serve with side of pain
and salad tossed with anger.
Open a bottle of What To Do Next.
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 10:51 AM UTC
I'm eight tablespoons vanilla
a cup of lemon juice
a heavy layer of mustard
dry like cocoa
rough baking soda
I'm quite thick
and risen
oh yes,
I'm bitter and sour with a dash of flour.
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 5:22 PM 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