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"tongs" poems
As I sit here, at the dining room table and stare over decaf coffee at the screen on my Mac my eyes are drawn, once and awhile, to the picture sitting on the buffet in the butler's pantry. Before we continue you should know that "butler's pantry" in this case means the "third bedroom" that we saw in the listing on Realtor dot com before we bought the house and that, in the usual real estate-ese, is an optimistic label at best. But I was talking about the picture. The picture sits, slightly askew, in a carved wooden bowl given to us by my wife's boss as a housewarming present. It, the bowl I mean, came with salad tongs or forks, depending on what it is that you call them, made of water buffalo horn. They sit in the bowl too and, although she'd never admit it, I know that the thought of serving salad with water buffalo horn salad forks... lets just say..... doesn't appeal to my wife. Right, the picture.... It sits in on the buffet, in the carved wooden bowl, next to another wood bowl. This one full of carved wood fruits and vegetables, which evidently, includes sugar cane. When my wife's dad moved from his house to an assisted living facility the kids, my wife, her brother and sister, took turns going down to help him move. My wife was the last and dad insisted that someone "had" to take the fruit. But, the picture.... It, and the wooden bowls full of fruit and unused salad forks, are surrounded by both faux and real glassware and placemats which all sit perched on the top of the buffet as precariously as refugees and all of their belongings on the deck and roof of an overloaded fishing boat chugging from their homeland to some place that is hopefully better. The picture... It was painted by my father-in-law and, of all the others we have in the house, is one of my favorites. It sits on the buffet, askew in the carved wooden bowl with the horn salad forks, amid polycarbonate and glass drink ware, and placemats, unframed for some reason. All of his other works came framed but this is one he did not... and did I mention that it is one of my favorites? I like his choices of frames on all of the other pictures we have, but this is just canvas, stretched over a frame, sitting in that carved African wooden bowl with those salad forks made from water buffalo horn on the buffet next to the other wood bowl full of wooden fruits and vegetables, and wooden sugar cane, in the butler's pantry.
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Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 9:51 AM UTC
The Picture
As I sit here, at the dining room table and stare over decaf coffee at the screen on my Mac my eyes are drawn, once and awhile, to the picture sitting on the buffet in the butler's pantry. Before we continue you should know that "butler's pantry" in this case means the "third bedroom" that we saw in the listing on Realtor dot com before we bought the house and that, in the usual real estate-ese, is an optimistic label at best. But I was talking about the picture. The picture sits, slightly askew, in a carved wooden bowl given to us by my wife's boss as a housewarming present. It, the bowl I mean, came with salad tongs or forks, depending on what it is that you call them, made of water buffalo horn. They sit in the bowl too and, although she'd never admit it, I know that the thought of serving salad with water buffalo horn salad forks... lets just say..... doesn't appeal to my wife. Right, the picture.... It sits in on the buffet, in the carved wooden bowl, next to another wood bowl. This one full of carved wood fruits and vegetables, which evidently, includes sugar cane. When my wife's dad moved from his house to an assisted living facility the kids, my wife, her brother and sister, took turns going down to help him move. My wife was the last and dad insisted that someone "had" to take the fruit. But, the picture.... It, and the wooden bowls full of fruit and unused salad forks, are surrounded by both faux and real glassware and placemats which all sit perched on the top of the buffet as precariously as refugees and all of their belongings on the deck and roof of an overloaded fishing boat chugging from their homeland to some place that is hopefully better. The picture... It was painted by my father-in-law and, of all the others we have in the house, is one of my favorites. It sits on the buffet, askew in the carved wooden bowl with the horn salad forks, amid polycarbonate and glass drink ware, and placemats, unframed for some reason. All of his other works came framed but this is one he did not... and did I mention that it is one of my favorites? I like his choices of frames on all of the other pictures we have, but this is just canvas, stretched over a frame, sitting in that carved African wooden bowl with those salad forks made from water buffalo horn on the buffet next to the other wood bowl full of wooden fruits and vegetables, and wooden sugar cane, in the butler's pantry.
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55
I The Nutcrackers sate by a plate on the table, The Sugar-tongs sate by a plate at his side; And the Nutcrackers said, 'Don't you wish we were able 'Along the blue hills and green meadows to ride? 'Must we drag on this stupid existence for ever, 'So idle so weary, so full of remorse,-- 'While every one else takes his pleasure, and never 'Seems happy unless he is riding a horse? II 'Don't you think we could ride without being instructed? 'Without any saddle, or bridle, or spur? 'Our legs are so long, and so aptly constructed, 'I'm sure that an accident could not occur. 'Let us all of a sudden hop down from the table, 'And hustle downstairs, and each jump on a horse! 'Shall we try? Shall we go! Do you think we are able?' The Sugar-tongs answered distinctly,'Of course!' III So down the long staircase they hopped in a minute, The Sugar-tongs snapped, and the Crackers said 'crack!' The stable was open, the horses were in it; Each took out a pony, and jumped on his back. The Cat in a fright scrambled out of the doorway, The Mice tumbled out of a bundle of hay, The brown and white Rats, and the black ones from Norway, Screamed out, 'They are taking the horses away!' IV The whole of the household was filled with amazement, The Cups and the Saucers danced madly about, The Plates and the Dishes looked out of the casement, The Saltcellar stood on his head with a shout, The Spoons with a clatter looked out of the lattice, The Mustard-pot climbed up the Gooseberry Pies, The Soup-ladle peeped through a heap of Veal Patties, And squeaked with a ladle-like scream of surprise. V The Frying-pan said, 'It's an awful delusion!' The Tea-kettle hissed and grew black in the face; And they all rushed downstairs in the wildest confusion, To see the great Nutcracker-Sugar-tong race. And out of the stable, with screamings and laughter, (Their ponies were cream-coloured, speckled with brown,) The Nutcrackers first, and the Sugar-tongs after, Rode all round the yard, and then all round the town. VI They rode through the street, and they rode by the station, They galloped away to the beautiful shore; In silence they rode, and 'made no observation', Save this: 'We will never go back any more!' And still you might hear, till they rode out of hearing, The Sugar-tongs snap, and the Crackers say 'crack!' Till far in the distance their forms disappearing, They faded away.--And they never came back!
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4.4k
The Nutcrackers And The Sugar-Tongs
I The Nutcrackers sate by a plate on the table, The Sugar-tongs sate by a plate at his side; And the Nutcrackers said, 'Don't you wish we were able 'Along the blue hills and green meadows to ride? 'Must we drag on this stupid existence for ever, 'So idle so weary, so full of remorse,-- 'While every one else takes his pleasure, and never 'Seems happy unless he is riding a horse? II 'Don't you think we could ride without being instructed? 'Without any saddle, or bridle, or spur? 'Our legs are so long, and so aptly constructed, 'I'm sure that an accident could not occur. 'Let us all of a sudden hop down from the table, 'And hustle downstairs, and each jump on a horse! 'Shall we try? Shall we go! Do you think we are able?' The Sugar-tongs answered distinctly,'Of course!' III So down the long staircase they hopped in a minute, The Sugar-tongs snapped, and the Crackers said 'crack!' The stable was open, the horses were in it; Each took out a pony, and jumped on his back. The Cat in a fright scrambled out of the doorway, The Mice tumbled out of a bundle of hay, The brown and white Rats, and the black ones from Norway, Screamed out, 'They are taking the horses away!' IV The whole of the household was filled with amazement, The Cups and the Saucers danced madly about, The Plates and the Dishes looked out of the casement, The Saltcellar stood on his head with a shout, The Spoons with a clatter looked out of the lattice, The Mustard-pot climbed up the Gooseberry Pies, The Soup-ladle peeped through a heap of Veal Patties, And squeaked with a ladle-like scream of surprise. V The Frying-pan said, 'It's an awful delusion!' The Tea-kettle hissed and grew black in the face; And they all rushed downstairs in the wildest confusion, To see the great Nutcracker-Sugar-tong race. And out of the stable, with screamings and laughter, (Their ponies were cream-coloured, speckled with brown,) The Nutcrackers first, and the Sugar-tongs after, Rode all round the yard, and then all round the town. VI They rode through the street, and they rode by the station, They galloped away to the beautiful shore; In silence they rode, and 'made no observation', Save this: 'We will never go back any more!' And still you might hear, till they rode out of hearing, The Sugar-tongs snap, and the Crackers say 'crack!' Till far in the distance their forms disappearing, They faded away.--And they never came back!
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54
I The Broom and the Shovel, the Poker and the Tongs, They all took a drive in the Park, And they each sang a song, Ding-a-dong, Ding-a-dong, Before they went back in the dark. Mr. Poker he sate quite upright in the coach, Mr. Tongs made a clatter and clash, Miss Shovel was all dressed in black (with a brooch), Mrs. Broom was in blue (with a sash). Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong! And they all sang a song! II 'O Shovel so lovely!' the Poker he sang, 'You have perfectly conquered my heart! 'Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong! If you're pleased with my song, 'I will feed you with cold apple **** 'When you scrape up the coals with a delicate sound, 'You encapture my life with delight! 'Your nose is so shiny! your head is so round! 'And your shape is so slender and bright! 'Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong! 'Ain't you pleased with my song?' III 'Alas! Mrs. Broom!' sighed the Tongs in his song, 'O is it because I'm so thin, 'And my legs are so long--Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong! 'That you don't care about me a pin? 'Ah! fairest of creatures, when sweeping the room, 'Ah! why don't you heed my complaint! 'Must you needs be so cruel, you beautiful Broom, 'Because you are covered with paint? 'Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong! 'You are certainly wrong!' IV Mrs. Broom and Miss Shovel together they sang, 'What nonsense you're singing to-day!' Said the Shovel, 'I'll certainly hit you a bang!' Said the Broom, 'And I'll sweep you away!' So the Coachman drove homeward as fast as he could, Perceiving their anger with pain; But they put on the kettle and little by little, They all became happy again. Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong! There's an end of my song!
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The Broom, The Shovel,The Poker, And The Tongs
I The Broom and the Shovel, the Poker and the Tongs, They all took a drive in the Park, And they each sang a song, Ding-a-dong, Ding-a-dong, Before they went back in the dark. Mr. Poker he sate quite upright in the coach, Mr. Tongs made a clatter and clash, Miss Shovel was all dressed in black (with a brooch), Mrs. Broom was in blue (with a sash). Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong! And they all sang a song! II 'O Shovel so lovely!' the Poker he sang, 'You have perfectly conquered my heart! 'Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong! If you're pleased with my song, 'I will feed you with cold apple **** 'When you scrape up the coals with a delicate sound, 'You encapture my life with delight! 'Your nose is so shiny! your head is so round! 'And your shape is so slender and bright! 'Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong! 'Ain't you pleased with my song?' III 'Alas! Mrs. Broom!' sighed the Tongs in his song, 'O is it because I'm so thin, 'And my legs are so long--Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong! 'That you don't care about me a pin? 'Ah! fairest of creatures, when sweeping the room, 'Ah! why don't you heed my complaint! 'Must you needs be so cruel, you beautiful Broom, 'Because you are covered with paint? 'Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong! 'You are certainly wrong!' IV Mrs. Broom and Miss Shovel together they sang, 'What nonsense you're singing to-day!' Said the Shovel, 'I'll certainly hit you a bang!' Said the Broom, 'And I'll sweep you away!' So the Coachman drove homeward as fast as he could, Perceiving their anger with pain; But they put on the kettle and little by little, They all became happy again. Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong! There's an end of my song!
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44
we dance with spoons and spatulas forks and whisks and tongs we use then for their real purpose, because we know what they're really for... unnecessarily profane songs that's why they're in our kitchen that's why they're in our hands right where they belong
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Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 5:35 PM UTC
utensils
Love can be like trapped light existing like dusk the likes of which we can't see physical but not optical gravesites for stars a waystation for dreamers a delta to cruise through paradise on Sunday cold as ice on Monday a hundred pound block on tongs with a butterfly at its center your temple of madness or the Egypt of your *** lands of mystery an island of death proven theories of sorrow your lineage, children, tomorrows.
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Jul 25, 2017
Jul 25, 2017 at 8:11 PM UTC
Love, the likes of which
Count-entious . . . Five-Seven-Five, or Is it Seven-Five-Seven? Dyslexic Haiku! High Coo-Coo . . . Words like scrambled eggs Malapropos slip off the tongs Lysdexics UNTIE! In Swummary . . . I never flip turned I zagged; everyone else zigged Oh, how I was schooled
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Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 8:24 PM UTC
Living Dyslexia
I used to be a mortar forker when I was a kid working construction, packing tongs of brick and slinging cinder blocks up three levels of scaffold only to have the block layers complain about how the mud was as dry as a camels **** but the pay was good and it was drank up every weekend while the chicks admired my tanned and buff skinny frame but shunned my drunken advances. © 2013
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Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
Mortar Forker
I HAVE ransacked the encyclopedias And slid my fingers among topics and titles Looking for you. And the answer comes slow. There seems to be no answer. I shall ask the next banana peddler the who and the why of it. Or-the iceman with his iron tongs gripping a clear cube in summer sunlight-maybe he will know.
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Old-fashioned Requited Love
There is perfection in the perfectly sauteed shrimp, pink and plump and juicy. Marinade clinging to the gentle curve of its back... specks of lime zest and tarragon... slide slowly down the sides, a hint of tequila, of honey curls their way from pan... to proboscis and I smile. Then... gently with tongs... turn them over.... ... ...
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Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
Perfect Shrimp
From this tree, they lynched John T, for the crime of speaking against slavery. Dead now, this spar stands among Holsteins in the pasture of a man who figures we’re cousins somehow. He, a midwestern farmer, me, a California craftsman, political poles apart but blood is thicker than geography. Ancient black walnut hollowed by rot is tough to salvage. Working together with chain saw and wrecking bar we find a section of solid core, and on the surface a scar like a grinning face where the branch broke off, long gone one hundred fifty years, the branch that held the rope that swung John T’s three hundred and fifty pounds of muscle and fat and bluster until it snapped. John T, who was the grandfather of my grandfather, ran into the forest where his best friend rescued him, a man named, ironically, Lynch, grandfather of the grandfather of the man with whom I speak. Thus, cousins — in the country way. I’ll make salad bowls, I say, wooden forks and tongs, walnut plates, maybe even a tea set for your daughter who seems so outspoken, so feisty and strong. Tea set? he says, she needs a lectern! So here it is. The grinning knot on the surface. Those holes in the side, from bullets. Lead slugs. I dug them out. Here, this cloth sack. May she heft them in her fist. May her words fire like cannons for freedom.
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May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 1:06 PM UTC
The Family Tree
When burning spices mingle with the prayer of heavenly voices, holy scents arise, and toward the East are turned my open eyes to look on Christ's ascension painted there. The censer’s smoke swirls up as embers flare an offering of Earth’s treasures toward the skies, while, sweetly sung, a hymn that glorifies the Holy Spirit fills the fragrant air. This adoration rises to the ceiling, and lingers there in humankind’s defense. My lips, and now this church, are cleansed by coal that burns in tongs and censer’s bowl revealing that sweet as odor spilled by lit incense is grace poured out upon my errant soul.
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Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 1:01 AM UTC
Lo, this has touched your lips
She tells me Lumpia is her taste of home. Traditions she had with her aunt when she was small Hands ***** Dark hair messy, But she smiled as she hovered over the hot oil. Halika dito, Come here. Gutom ka ba? Are you hungry? She tells me Her mother Would have her scrub her nails, Before sending her to set the first few servings In the oil to fry. She tells me That warm phillipian-lumpia memories Have their own special place In her heart, In her mind. On her tongue. Warm times standing speckled with youth. She speaks soft sweet days to me As she hands me the tongs to place the first servings in the pan.
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Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 8:32 PM UTC
The Tradition of Food.
How is it That with a few simple words, You tore my heart out of my chest, Ripped it open as it was still beating, Used tongs and tweezers to dismember it, Then threw it back in my face, Useless, a mess, and broken?
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Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 11:48 PM UTC
Brokenness
PINEAPPLE LIP GLOSS By: RENE Not long ago I fell in love With her beautiful lips I will never forget how sweet That lingering after taste Stayed in mouth well after she walked away And When She was almost out of my eye sight It became real cerebral melancholy of a love affair I had misplaced It took from me something objective Watching her leave of absence And From a distance At that very precise moment It became a sharp piercing pain in the center of my heart But I remember Oh how I remember I remember Her (PINE APPLE LIP GLOSS) The way we French kissed for long periods When I held on tightly Tightly til midnight The memory of her legs in white embroidery stockings How my fingers danced with excitement Triggering investments traveling up down her highway I was dizzy While tickling the measurements of her Inner thighs I remember this When I was Creating A representation That was supposed to last forever The further she walked the smaller she grew in my vision My eyes became a small rain storm drenching screaming Pulling me away from dreaming Away from my world as I had become too know it I Didn’t know what to say now Like words on a black board being erased I was at a loss for words So I held on to the memory Of Her (PINE APPLE LIP GLOSS) The way we French kissed for long periods No air escaping Imprisoning our tongs My own Perfect example I visualize an imagine I create in my mind the ability to conceive my own embodiment A pine apple salad with the juices flowing over When we touched each other’s lips Among other things!
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Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 9:54 AM UTC
PINEAPPLE LIPGLOSS
PINEAPPLE LIP GLOSS By: RENE Not long ago I fell in love With her beautiful lips I will never forget how sweet That lingering after taste Stayed in mouth well after she walked away And When She was almost out of my eye sight It became real cerebral melancholy of a love affair I had misplaced It took from me something objective Watching her leave of absence And From a distance At that very precise moment It became a sharp piercing pain in the center of my heart But I remember Oh how I remember I remember Her (PINE APPLE LIP GLOSS) The way we French kissed for long periods When I held on tightly Tightly til midnight The memory of her legs in white embroidery stockings How my fingers danced with excitement Triggering investments traveling up down her highway I was dizzy While tickling the measurements of her Inner thighs I remember this When I was Creating A representation That was supposed to last forever The further she walked the smaller she grew in my vision My eyes became a small rain storm drenching screaming Pulling me away from dreaming Away from my world as I had become too know it I Didn’t know what to say now Like words on a black board being erased I was at a loss for words So I held on to the memory Of Her (PINE APPLE LIP GLOSS) The way we French kissed for long periods No air escaping Imprisoning our tongs My own Perfect example I visualize an imagine I create in my mind the ability to conceive my own embodiment A pine apple salad with the juices flowing over When we touched each other’s lips Among other things!
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59
All estuaries flow eastbound, and the subterranean rail tracks keep forcing against the estuaries’ grain and dust foundations perpendicularly to them. How can a sane proposition -- a quantification of syntax execution (those squirming cuticles through bonds of regression)— an excessive reflection, reflexive inspection, Prove its sanity through continued suggestion? Deductive insurrections stirred in memory, A rumble, causing sediments to crumble, Wineglasses balanced atop countertops tumble. Spilling contents upon the grained wooden, elitists' floors. "Anesthetic, onsetting tuberculosis in breath patterns, Gavels ringing on rigged tolling tongs in caverns, Dark tolerances to Copernican astronomy in shadows, And the handle grinds as boxcar wheels' flints and steels catch and spark in addled locks," I mumbled from a half-nap. It was surgery, the smooth procedures on the moving trains, The gains and plectrums scraped against the brains' spider veins, To reorganize the sane, to bridge the broken definitions changed, To prevent arguments' bone structure from fractures and sprains. "Use gavels against the scalpels, sculpt with their judgment," a corona dream's habitant corrugated. He pounded the gavel's end against the knife to chisel at the pituitary gland pulsing in his subject, And her arms flailed like a horse's legs in heat-induced convulsion. I thought it was done. The Canson Merue train screamed in the night under earth to Yellowknife to meet Canadian soil as the Heavy Breather pounded his gavel.
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Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
The Continued Suggestion (Subterrain)
All estuaries flow eastbound, and the subterranean rail tracks keep forcing against the estuaries’ grain and dust foundations perpendicularly to them. How can a sane proposition -- a quantification of syntax execution (those squirming cuticles through bonds of regression)— an excessive reflection, reflexive inspection, Prove its sanity through continued suggestion? Deductive insurrections stirred in memory, A rumble, causing sediments to crumble, Wineglasses balanced atop countertops tumble. Spilling contents upon the grained wooden, elitists' floors. "Anesthetic, onsetting tuberculosis in breath patterns, Gavels ringing on rigged tolling tongs in caverns, Dark tolerances to Copernican astronomy in shadows, And the handle grinds as boxcar wheels' flints and steels catch and spark in addled locks," I mumbled from a half-nap. It was surgery, the smooth procedures on the moving trains, The gains and plectrums scraped against the brains' spider veins, To reorganize the sane, to bridge the broken definitions changed, To prevent arguments' bone structure from fractures and sprains. "Use gavels against the scalpels, sculpt with their judgment," a corona dream's habitant corrugated. He pounded the gavel's end against the knife to chisel at the pituitary gland pulsing in his subject, And her arms flailed like a horse's legs in heat-induced convulsion. I thought it was done. The Canson Merue train screamed in the night under earth to Yellowknife to meet Canadian soil as the Heavy Breather pounded his gavel.
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20
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.
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Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 10:50 AM UTC
Men And Thier Bar-B-Q's
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.
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33
My mom had me when she was nineteen years old, but I wasn't an accident. My mom had surgery the day before yesterday and I wasn't there to kiss her before she went in. She called me before and she left me a voicemail when she got out. She said she loved me and she missed me. I miss her too. My mom hates washing more dishes than she has to, but she refuses to use the dish washer. We eat on paper plates and we have three sets of salad tongs that we got for free from Dion's Pizza. My mom goes to Sam's Club to buy Charmin and generic paper towels, she likes the hot dogs at Target, and she gets her iced non-fat mochas at McDonalds. My mom is tiny. She weighs a hundred and ten pounds and is 5 feet 3 inches. She has fake ***** and long black hair down to her waist. She makes me feel safe. My mom works two jobs, on top of taking care of three kids plus me. She makes Mama Mia mac and cheese, and Mama Mia meatloaf and Mama Mia fajitas, basically she makes food and calls it Mama Mia because she made it. My mom is beautiful.
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Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 9:39 AM UTC
I have a thirteen dollar tattoo and my mom still loves me.
Our faces were aligned we look into each others eyes I paused for a moment I moved in and touched your lips with mine I moved back to look into your eyes you looked at me and smiled I moved in for a repeat you moved your head slightly sideways and closed your eyes I moved in and and your arms brought me in with even more confirmation our mouths now lock and open we explore with our tongs eyes closed as if we are floating we both realize we forgot to breath we somehow find a rhythm we both never want it to end but we know this pleasure means something more is to come We come to a fade now our eyes wide open we look at each other an pause and smile with enjoyment I don't know what to say and you can't think we touch just hands now you move to the door so slowly and say goodnight I just stand there and watch as you fade from my sight.
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Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 2:05 AM UTC
The kiss
Push false math theorems between slices of white bread. Shove it down my throat. When I choke, refuse to perform the Heimlich. Open up my insides. Force the twisted logic through my intestines like a broken machine. Sew my mouth shut so I can't throw it up. Carve the periodic table into my arms with your sharpened Swiss army knife. Smile while my skin is replaced with ****** atomic numbers. Saw my fingers off so I can't use them to cover the halogens. Glue my eyelashes to my eyebrows so my eyes can't close. Color my irises black with permanent marker: just like yours. Force me to see the way you do. Tear from my mind every original thought. Shout at my dreams until they run away in fear. Vacuum my favorite memories out through my ears. Fit the remaining contents of my brain into your incorrect physics equation. Extract my heart from my rib cage with kitchen tongs. Watch my skin go pale. Watch my eyes go still. Tell my empty body it's for the best. Tell this shadow of my soul that you love it.
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Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
Puppet
Griddle sermons Would you like some philosophy with those fried eggs ? Free advice cascades like rivers of fresh juice greasy story tongs lift crackling sausages upon serving plates dressed with buttered toast jam-packed with social commentary a side order of cautionary tales dished out hot regales patiently gleaming forks awaiting their reason for being What’s that burning smell? Someone asks breakfast sizzles onward undeterred arrival time – indefinite.
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May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
Sunday Breakfast
Hearts, pound Hands touch Lips approach To make a sound Our tongs and our lips Produce a warm melody That make our cheeks Dance to our heartbeats A playfull, tasty kiss Is Adored by some But it is its sound That I truely miss A perfect scene Pictured in my mind Of two lovable beings Wanting to be just one Neighter of us is in it Is merely a fantasy A mischevious dream I wish i could end it
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Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 12:10 AM UTC
The sound of a kiss
“…you’ll love this riveting memoir.” One longs to see a memoir riveting, Setting in place with tongs the hot red steel, Bucking the tail, and quickly pivoting For another – a worker’s life is real
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Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 2:57 PM UTC
Simon and Schuster and the Construction Trades
for G of course to take you in my mouth, deeper still but more than that to peel you from you, spine from wing, sated rind from hoof, dazzle eventuous from the rhurbarb pie still on the sill and still cooling. I want to do with you what ice cream does with a warm pie, a little butter unzip to be a sugar cube and hurl myself off the silver tongs and into your steaming, baby, to answer the question with my first tongue.
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Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 6:51 AM UTC
Dazzle Eventuous
Your over sized eyes offer no kind of fear Mostly just a jovial inquiry Into the most trivial causes of our existence You eager little child The tuffs of you hair sprout sideways A random treble of camouflage comfort As if to explore Not obstructed by some code of calamity Not a paw or a hand The tiny tongs of your fingers spread grasping some house wives fruit salad Your nails colored like a stained cigarette Once pried away from the comforts of your cage You grasp tightly to the mixed fabrication of my dress Ever so snugly you claw at my hips With your coarse outer being longing for more If I loosened my grip you would tighten yours Not out of fear But of pure connection Even in this writhing heat who could not welcome this kind of embrace Once placed in a tree Your head swivels as if on a pike The look on your face indicates you are on the best acid trip of your life Perfectly content just to be staring at my face Examining the purple shadows And the hidden valleys of my eyebrows Sunbeams radiate from your egg shaped contemplation You are dewily mellow old friend When you look at me I want to burst into ironic symphonies of bliss The love of a sloth
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Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:29 AM UTC
Stoners of the Rain forest