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"tortilla" poems
Four blocks down, A man who never gives the same name Stands every day selling condoms With Tiger’s face telling us to “Protect Our Wood”, And next to him is the vendor where I just bought my new favorite scarf. His name is Lorenzo. He’s 6 foot 4, Old school Italian, and after two months I’ve yet to see him wear the same shoes twice. Natalie played softball in high school. She now owns a hot dog stand just outside That I’ve seen fifty people wait in line for. After a heartfelt conversation we had On a certain rainy Thursday morning, Natalie now throws me a free Polish sausage with peppers Once in a while when I open my second story window. She hasn’t missed once. My one neighbor is a Latina grandmother named Sofia. She brought her kids here illegally, And they’ve since used their success To cut all ties to dear old Mexico And to her. I eat with her once a week, And we share cooking recipes And small tales about life BNY (Before New York). There’s a homeless man downtown Whose sign says “A quarter a day Keeps my teeth off your leg”, And ever since he’s proven it to me I’ve dropped fifty cents a day, Hoping for extra protection. When my friends from college come to visit, They were all curious about Lorenzo’s shoes And Natalie’s pitching arm And when Sofia’s daughter would show up (Tyler had a thing for hispanic girls). I never tried to explain, because I never felt the need to know the answer myself. All I cared about were Natalie’s smile, Sofia’s homemade tortilla chips, And how a guy like Lorenzo ended up in New York City selling scarves.
0
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
charlotte-kemp
Big City Dreams
Four blocks down, A man who never gives the same name Stands every day selling condoms With Tiger’s face telling us to “Protect Our Wood”, And next to him is the vendor where I just bought my new favorite scarf. His name is Lorenzo. He’s 6 foot 4, Old school Italian, and after two months I’ve yet to see him wear the same shoes twice. Natalie played softball in high school. She now owns a hot dog stand just outside That I’ve seen fifty people wait in line for. After a heartfelt conversation we had On a certain rainy Thursday morning, Natalie now throws me a free Polish sausage with peppers Once in a while when I open my second story window. She hasn’t missed once. My one neighbor is a Latina grandmother named Sofia. She brought her kids here illegally, And they’ve since used their success To cut all ties to dear old Mexico And to her. I eat with her once a week, And we share cooking recipes And small tales about life BNY (Before New York). There’s a homeless man downtown Whose sign says “A quarter a day Keeps my teeth off your leg”, And ever since he’s proven it to me I’ve dropped fifty cents a day, Hoping for extra protection. When my friends from college come to visit, They were all curious about Lorenzo’s shoes And Natalie’s pitching arm And when Sofia’s daughter would show up (Tyler had a thing for hispanic girls). I never tried to explain, because I never felt the need to know the answer myself. All I cared about were Natalie’s smile, Sofia’s homemade tortilla chips, And how a guy like Lorenzo ended up in New York City selling scarves.
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42
I was making a burrito when I dropped the tortilla into the fryer     looks like I'm eating tostadas instead... I was making a tostada when The tortilla folded over inside the fryer     looks like I'm eating tacos instead... I was making a taco when the edges of my overside tortilla folded up in the small fryer     looks like I'm eating a taco salad instead... I was making a taco salad when the shell was dropped and shattered upon the counter     looks like I'm eating nachos instead... I was making some nachos when I ran out of chips, so I grabbed a tortilla    looks like I'm eating a burrito instead...
0
Sep 4, 2011
Sep 4, 2011 at 3:15 PM UTC
OnlyEggy
Evolution of my Mexican Food
I was making a burrito when I dropped the tortilla into the fryer     looks like I'm eating tostadas instead... I was making a tostada when The tortilla folded over inside the fryer     looks like I'm eating tacos instead... I was making a taco when the edges of my overside tortilla folded up in the small fryer     looks like I'm eating a taco salad instead... I was making a taco salad when the shell was dropped and shattered upon the counter     looks like I'm eating nachos instead... I was making some nachos when I ran out of chips, so I grabbed a tortilla    looks like I'm eating a burrito instead...
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15
There is no need for discernable lines in the moment I am content. there is no need for anything. but the moment. naked & anxiously awaiting reawakening & my hands betray me by shaking & blantantly saying you've swayed me it's crazy. today I created nothing & I am wasted anything & everything. but it's okay. the mosaic is a face faded in the foreground. this is fair ground. today I'll walk on air today I'll float on clouds today I'll foam at the mouth then I'll roll around in my beloved filth that you brought about. be proud, I can't be without it.
0
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 8:27 AM UTC
soldamerican-
Tortilla Sunrise
There is no need for discernable lines in the moment I am content. there is no need for anything. but the moment. naked & anxiously awaiting reawakening & my hands betray me by shaking & blantantly saying you've swayed me it's crazy. today I created nothing & I am wasted anything & everything. but it's okay. the mosaic is a face faded in the foreground. this is fair ground. today I'll walk on air today I'll float on clouds today I'll foam at the mouth then I'll roll around in my beloved filth that you brought about. be proud, I can't be without it.
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28
The rooster sings to the sun, answering the call is the light that embraces all. All at once the birds sing their own song. Awaken by mother's sweet voice. "It's time to go" she says. She hands me a  green cubeta con maiz. The corn's color is purple and white instantly I fall in love with its kind The cold blue morning gives me chills. I carry the bucket to my grandmother's house. With her mandil and her braided hair, she sits by the comal making tortillas. "Good morning abueltia" with a smile on my face. "Good morning m'ija" she replies. I keep walking carrying the heavy bucket. A small room next to a store crowded with senoras. Their rebozos around their heads and arms and buckets in hand. I feel so small so young but inside I'm proud. I wait in line as I greet and make small talk. These ladies have the nicest smiles. My turn, I grab my cubeta and proceed to the molino. My arms are too little. A lady approaches and helps me load the molino. I watch in awe as the grains turn in masa. I bend down and collect it. "En una bolita" the lady tells me to shape it. I nod and continue to make it. Gray like the color of my grandma's hair. soft like my mother's hand. I fill the bucket with the masa. I thank las senoras and head back to mi casa. I hand the bucket to my mom who was milking la vaca. She starts the comal and gets the cal. Her hands slapping the masa like she was clapping. Perfect big round warm tortillas. I was a little girl that helped her make them. A little girl that still remembers.
0
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 5:24 AM UTC
anaid87
Tortilla Memories
The rooster sings to the sun, answering the call is the light that embraces all. All at once the birds sing their own song. Awaken by mother's sweet voice. "It's time to go" she says. She hands me a  green cubeta con maiz. The corn's color is purple and white instantly I fall in love with its kind The cold blue morning gives me chills. I carry the bucket to my grandmother's house. With her mandil and her braided hair, she sits by the comal making tortillas. "Good morning abueltia" with a smile on my face. "Good morning m'ija" she replies. I keep walking carrying the heavy bucket. A small room next to a store crowded with senoras. Their rebozos around their heads and arms and buckets in hand. I feel so small so young but inside I'm proud. I wait in line as I greet and make small talk. These ladies have the nicest smiles. My turn, I grab my cubeta and proceed to the molino. My arms are too little. A lady approaches and helps me load the molino. I watch in awe as the grains turn in masa. I bend down and collect it. "En una bolita" the lady tells me to shape it. I nod and continue to make it. Gray like the color of my grandma's hair. soft like my mother's hand. I fill the bucket with the masa. I thank las senoras and head back to mi casa. I hand the bucket to my mom who was milking la vaca. She starts the comal and gets the cal. Her hands slapping the masa like she was clapping. Perfect big round warm tortillas. I was a little girl that helped her make them. A little girl that still remembers.
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37
.                                 1 can diced                            mangos, drained•                           1 can diced tomato                          es, drained • 1\4 cup                            diced red onion •                            1\4 cup  chopped                             fresh  cilantro or                             mint• 1\2 jalapeñ                             o, seeded and fin                             ely chopped  or 2                             tbsp. canned dice                             d jalapeño. • 2 tb.                             p.   fresh  lime or                             lemon juice ****                  stir together     all ingredients           in medium bowl  Serve as a dip with           tortilla or pita ch ips or as a topping              for quesadillas   or grilled chicken                    fish  or                  pork ****
0
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
TheGoodPussy
Mango Salsa
.                                 1 can diced                            mangos, drained•                           1 can diced tomato                          es, drained • 1\4 cup                            diced red onion •                            1\4 cup  chopped                             fresh  cilantro or                             mint• 1\2 jalapeñ                             o, seeded and fin                             ely chopped  or 2                             tbsp. canned dice                             d jalapeño. • 2 tb.                             p.   fresh  lime or                             lemon juice ****                  stir together     all ingredients           in medium bowl  Serve as a dip with           tortilla or pita ch ips or as a topping              for quesadillas   or grilled chicken                    fish  or                  pork ****
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20
I write my shopping-list in rhyme. It doesn’t take me too much time, and always helps me to remember. (I’ve been doing it since last September.) Wholemeal bread low-fat spread strawberry jam dry-cured ham Cheddar cheese frozen peas free-range eggs chicken legs grape jelly pork belly lamb chops lemon drops fillet steak chocolate cake cookie mix seafood sticks tortilla chips salsa dips instant coffee treacle toffee dried sultanas ripe bananas runner beans a bunch of greens new potatoes vine tomatoes and (really urgent) liquid detergent. Now that I've written my shopping-list, I hope there's nothing that I've missed. And if you don't think much of the verse, Consider this - it could have been worse!
0
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 7:34 PM UTC
paul-hansford
My Shopping List
I write my shopping-list in rhyme. It doesn’t take me too much time, and always helps me to remember. (I’ve been doing it since last September.) Wholemeal bread low-fat spread strawberry jam dry-cured ham Cheddar cheese frozen peas free-range eggs chicken legs grape jelly pork belly lamb chops lemon drops fillet steak chocolate cake cookie mix seafood sticks tortilla chips salsa dips instant coffee treacle toffee dried sultanas ripe bananas runner beans a bunch of greens new potatoes vine tomatoes and (really urgent) liquid detergent. Now that I've written my shopping-list, I hope there's nothing that I've missed. And if you don't think much of the verse, Consider this - it could have been worse!
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36
you kidding me, right?   nachos? tacos? tortilla wraps?           guacamole molé molé? sombrero(s)...   the revised eastern european moustache?                     tequila! that's it?                well... not if you consider the second tier of soy boys - the ones that drink that... budscheiss that's          "der könig aus bier"... one word... no... actually two: CER-VE(H)-ZA(H) - probably the spanish word, that sounds better than all the other spanish words...      what did mexíxíxíxíco give us?    the orthodox script of a german beer:     yeast, hops, barley, malt, water... fizz: boom!    a fine summer's day...    mexíxíxíxíco beer? MALTED, BARLEY...      don't ask me how the genius figured out a smoothness so subtle,    that you actually had to shove a lime wedge into the neck of the bottle...   or, as i did - buying an almost litre sized bottle,    and a lime -   looking at this ***** goliath at the checkout thinking:    david?        am i david?     did we really enslave such people? david, meet goliath... goliath wanders off like some happy ****** giggling and brings another strawberry milkshake to the checkout...          so the west, enslaved these                            nearing 7ft Baobabs? king david's audacity,            nothing more... so i buy the CO(H)-RHO-NA(H), and a lime (30 pence a piece)... **** no knife... guess teeth will have to do... shove a whole lime in bits and bites and walk on...                    seriously? guacamole molé molé?          that's the best you can do? drinking a beer with lime... compared to the h'american budscheiss?            who... apart from the japanese... extracts alcohol... from: ******* rice!        malted, barley...                    whoever that sergio sanchez was...                hats off to him...      sometimes it's just nice... to take a break from the heavy cavalry, orthodoxy brew of german beers...    americans?      know jackshit about brewing a decent beer...    mexicans?               they put a lime in it! **** you have to drink it!
0
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 6:44 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
what was it that mexíco gave us
you kidding me, right?   nachos? tacos? tortilla wraps?           guacamole molé molé? sombrero(s)...   the revised eastern european moustache?                     tequila! that's it?                well... not if you consider the second tier of soy boys - the ones that drink that... budscheiss that's          "der könig aus bier"... one word... no... actually two: CER-VE(H)-ZA(H) - probably the spanish word, that sounds better than all the other spanish words...      what did mexíxíxíxíco give us?    the orthodox script of a german beer:     yeast, hops, barley, malt, water... fizz: boom!    a fine summer's day...    mexíxíxíxíco beer? MALTED, BARLEY...      don't ask me how the genius figured out a smoothness so subtle,    that you actually had to shove a lime wedge into the neck of the bottle...   or, as i did - buying an almost litre sized bottle,    and a lime -   looking at this ***** goliath at the checkout thinking:    david?        am i david?     did we really enslave such people? david, meet goliath... goliath wanders off like some happy ****** giggling and brings another strawberry milkshake to the checkout...          so the west, enslaved these                            nearing 7ft Baobabs? king david's audacity,            nothing more... so i buy the CO(H)-RHO-NA(H), and a lime (30 pence a piece)... **** no knife... guess teeth will have to do... shove a whole lime in bits and bites and walk on...                    seriously? guacamole molé molé?          that's the best you can do? drinking a beer with lime... compared to the h'american budscheiss?            who... apart from the japanese... extracts alcohol... from: ******* rice!        malted, barley...                    whoever that sergio sanchez was...                hats off to him...      sometimes it's just nice... to take a break from the heavy cavalry, orthodoxy brew of german beers...    americans?      know jackshit about brewing a decent beer...    mexicans?               they put a lime in it! **** you have to drink it!
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79
¿Por qué, por qué tiene que ser así? Esto no es correcto, no para mí. No quiero que me digan que pruebe el “Café de Costa Rica”, los “Bombones de Colombia”, las “Arepas de Venezuela”, las “Carnes de Argentina", las “Pastas italianas”, los “Tacos mexicanos”, la “Tortilla española”, la “Comida china” o la “Pizza con el ingrediente especial de Italia”. No quiero que me digan “Esto está hecho en China” ni “¡Wao! Esto no está hecho en China, está hecho en Taiwan”. No quiero que me digan “Mira este documental de África”, “Que hermosa se ve esa foto de la Torre Eiffel” o “Que alto debe estar ese edificio de New York”. No quiero que me cuenten cómo les fue en su viaje a Europa, su jornada en California o sus problemas mientras estuvieron en Canada. No quiero que me relaten las historias aprendidas durante su tiempo en Egipto o los bailes ensayados mientras estaban en Brasil. No quiero que hablen de su críticas respecto a la cutura de India, de Guyana o de Cuba. No quiero que me describan lo exquisita que estuvo la comida en Perú, en Australia o en República Dominicana. No quiero que me muestren la música de Jamaica o la de Rusia. No quiero que me digan  o me enseñen nada, nada más. Quiero yo poder probar los alimentos en su nacionalidad. Quiero sentir el aroma del café en las mañanas durante unas vacaciones en Costa Rica y probar ese toque especial que hace que la pizza en Italia sea diferente a la que acostumbramos a ordenar. Quiero ver cómo hacen los artefactos, estar en China y luego en Taiwan, tener esa experiencia de crear algo. Quiero visitar África y tomar mi propio documental, treparme en ese gigante edificio y apreciar la hermosa vista. Quiero ser yo la que cuente mi experiencia en las calles de Europa, California o Canada. Quiero aprender historias sobre Egipto y sus magníficas esculturas, incluso quiero aprender a darzar como lo hacen en Brasil y cada movimiento perfeccionar. Quiero dar las críticas sobre mis pensamientos hacia dichas culturas, pero con respeto. Quiero describir los suculentos platos y hacer que las personas se los imaginen, de tal manera que hasta en sus paladares puedan sentirlos. Quiero  escuchar la música de Jamaica y la de Rusia y si es en vivo, aún mejor, así podré meditarla e interpretarla. Puede sonar un poco alocado y para muchos sin sentido, pero para mí es más que un simple pensamiento o cualquier capricho, son sueños y metas que a diario me propongo. Para ello hay que trabajar duro, pero desde mi niñez me enseñaron que “el que quiere puede, solo hay que perseverar para triunfar”. Sé que algún día lo voy a alcanzar y todos se sorprenderán, cuando con orgullo les relate sobre lo que un día fue “un simple  deseo internacional ”.
0
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 12:24 PM UTC
anicolets
Deseo internacional
¿Por qué, por qué tiene que ser así? Esto no es correcto, no para mí. No quiero que me digan que pruebe el “Café de Costa Rica”, los “Bombones de Colombia”, las “Arepas de Venezuela”, las “Carnes de Argentina", las “Pastas italianas”, los “Tacos mexicanos”, la “Tortilla española”, la “Comida china” o la “Pizza con el ingrediente especial de Italia”. No quiero que me digan “Esto está hecho en China” ni “¡Wao! Esto no está hecho en China, está hecho en Taiwan”. No quiero que me digan “Mira este documental de África”, “Que hermosa se ve esa foto de la Torre Eiffel” o “Que alto debe estar ese edificio de New York”. No quiero que me cuenten cómo les fue en su viaje a Europa, su jornada en California o sus problemas mientras estuvieron en Canada. No quiero que me relaten las historias aprendidas durante su tiempo en Egipto o los bailes ensayados mientras estaban en Brasil. No quiero que hablen de su críticas respecto a la cutura de India, de Guyana o de Cuba. No quiero que me describan lo exquisita que estuvo la comida en Perú, en Australia o en República Dominicana. No quiero que me muestren la música de Jamaica o la de Rusia. No quiero que me digan  o me enseñen nada, nada más. Quiero yo poder probar los alimentos en su nacionalidad. Quiero sentir el aroma del café en las mañanas durante unas vacaciones en Costa Rica y probar ese toque especial que hace que la pizza en Italia sea diferente a la que acostumbramos a ordenar. Quiero ver cómo hacen los artefactos, estar en China y luego en Taiwan, tener esa experiencia de crear algo. Quiero visitar África y tomar mi propio documental, treparme en ese gigante edificio y apreciar la hermosa vista. Quiero ser yo la que cuente mi experiencia en las calles de Europa, California o Canada. Quiero aprender historias sobre Egipto y sus magníficas esculturas, incluso quiero aprender a darzar como lo hacen en Brasil y cada movimiento perfeccionar. Quiero dar las críticas sobre mis pensamientos hacia dichas culturas, pero con respeto. Quiero describir los suculentos platos y hacer que las personas se los imaginen, de tal manera que hasta en sus paladares puedan sentirlos. Quiero  escuchar la música de Jamaica y la de Rusia y si es en vivo, aún mejor, así podré meditarla e interpretarla. Puede sonar un poco alocado y para muchos sin sentido, pero para mí es más que un simple pensamiento o cualquier capricho, son sueños y metas que a diario me propongo. Para ello hay que trabajar duro, pero desde mi niñez me enseñaron que “el que quiere puede, solo hay que perseverar para triunfar”. Sé que algún día lo voy a alcanzar y todos se sorprenderán, cuando con orgullo les relate sobre lo que un día fue “un simple  deseo internacional ”.
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2
you are there, in the kitchen of my dream at the stove making enchiladas and tapioca. you are probably one hundred and i think you might keel over, dropping your white head into the *** of yellow pudding. i wonder how you got so suddenly old and i so suddenly young when i can remember reading fairy tales buying you sugary breakfast cereals and letting you sleep in my bed even though you kick and also tell people the embarrassing things i say in my sleep. i am so hungry i want to eat it all and leave none for you but you say to wait to wait until my eyelashes turn into a million tiny butterflies and tickle my skin with their light wings. but i'm hungry now, i whine shoving past you pushing a hot tortilla between my teeth and swallowing greedily desperately before collapsing into a sea of blue tiles. i awake violently, your small foot at my chin. staring at me is a toenail painted blue. i stare back at it, into that tiny ocean.
0
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
emily-k-1
babysitting
you are there, in the kitchen of my dream at the stove making enchiladas and tapioca. you are probably one hundred and i think you might keel over, dropping your white head into the *** of yellow pudding. i wonder how you got so suddenly old and i so suddenly young when i can remember reading fairy tales buying you sugary breakfast cereals and letting you sleep in my bed even though you kick and also tell people the embarrassing things i say in my sleep. i am so hungry i want to eat it all and leave none for you but you say to wait to wait until my eyelashes turn into a million tiny butterflies and tickle my skin with their light wings. but i'm hungry now, i whine shoving past you pushing a hot tortilla between my teeth and swallowing greedily desperately before collapsing into a sea of blue tiles. i awake violently, your small foot at my chin. staring at me is a toenail painted blue. i stare back at it, into that tiny ocean.
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36
I don't like being alone. Rays of kitchen light, Beaming down on lime flavored tortilla chips, With mild salsa, That's still, Too hot! Or cheap tea, Flavored with lemon and crystalizing honey, I do not like being alone, Stacking, Molasses cookies, On my shaky finger tips, I do not like being alone! Shaky, shaky, Three, Round plates, Stacked on top of one another, And I'm not saying I have a standard, eating disorder, But when I am depressed, And, Alone, I just, Don't, Get, FULL. No I don't think I'm fat, I love my body, And I'm not over weight, But my stomach, Is the new home, To the black hole in my mind, It's fine, I say, You don't know how many plates today, And it's not every day, But I find myself stealing snacks, The way people steal kisses, Enjoying meals hot or cold, Instead of going in the snow, For if i lept into turning waters, Like people leap for love, Or if my mind, Got that black back, Transferred from my stomach, You, Wouldn't be the only thing crushing.
0
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 10:51 PM UTC
miriam-harrington
Food is toxic love.
I don't like being alone. Rays of kitchen light, Beaming down on lime flavored tortilla chips, With mild salsa, That's still, Too hot! Or cheap tea, Flavored with lemon and crystalizing honey, I do not like being alone, Stacking, Molasses cookies, On my shaky finger tips, I do not like being alone! Shaky, shaky, Three, Round plates, Stacked on top of one another, And I'm not saying I have a standard, eating disorder, But when I am depressed, And, Alone, I just, Don't, Get, FULL. No I don't think I'm fat, I love my body, And I'm not over weight, But my stomach, Is the new home, To the black hole in my mind, It's fine, I say, You don't know how many plates today, And it's not every day, But I find myself stealing snacks, The way people steal kisses, Enjoying meals hot or cold, Instead of going in the snow, For if i lept into turning waters, Like people leap for love, Or if my mind, Got that black back, Transferred from my stomach, You, Wouldn't be the only thing crushing.
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47
Razor-mouthed maw lurks in the shadows receptacle of grim devouring Watching and waiting for foolish flesh fresh meat We all have to eat Real monsters follow ALL of their appetites Prissy poodles get dragged screaming through sewer grates Crumpled little pink permed bodies Bones crunch like tortilla chips Lifesblood imbibed No rest for the wicked No escape from the wicked Crocodile smiles sheds fake tears for poor little creatures Too stupid to avoid his bite Too weak to fight back Too closeminded to enjoy it Crocodile grins temporarily satisfied Scarecrow watches all from the shadows Scythe sways in silence waiting to witness the next sacrifice.
0
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 8:07 AM UTC
saul-makabim
Crocodile
Razor-mouthed maw lurks in the shadows receptacle of grim devouring Watching and waiting for foolish flesh fresh meat We all have to eat Real monsters follow ALL of their appetites Prissy poodles get dragged screaming through sewer grates Crumpled little pink permed bodies Bones crunch like tortilla chips Lifesblood imbibed No rest for the wicked No escape from the wicked Crocodile smiles sheds fake tears for poor little creatures Too stupid to avoid his bite Too weak to fight back Too closeminded to enjoy it Crocodile grins temporarily satisfied Scarecrow watches all from the shadows Scythe sways in silence waiting to witness the next sacrifice.
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26
Under harsh street lights And a rusted skeletal overpass We walked in the syrupy Silence of a Sunnyside Saturday Night A man asked me in accented English "Want that burrito spicy?" "Yes" His eyebrows go up "Spicy?" "Yes, ******* spicy!" He smiles to himself Reaches back into the food truck And pours sauces and Liquids of varying color And viscosity into the Tortilla Wraps it up for me Gives me my change And waves me off with a smile When we get back to the apartment She is mad Because I choose to make love to the Burrito instead of her I can't help it Drunk eating is one of the Forbidden joys of life She slams the door and Shuffles around yelling By the time I'm done the burrito She is telling me to sleep on the couch Which is fine because I can't Feel my mouth anyway The burrito is so **** spicy I tell her this and that her Kisses would be wasted If she wants to waste her time With me, I want to feel it We sleep together for The night
0
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 6:15 PM UTC
saintlebowitz
Food Truck Burrito
Under harsh street lights And a rusted skeletal overpass We walked in the syrupy Silence of a Sunnyside Saturday Night A man asked me in accented English "Want that burrito spicy?" "Yes" His eyebrows go up "Spicy?" "Yes, ******* spicy!" He smiles to himself Reaches back into the food truck And pours sauces and Liquids of varying color And viscosity into the Tortilla Wraps it up for me Gives me my change And waves me off with a smile When we get back to the apartment She is mad Because I choose to make love to the Burrito instead of her I can't help it Drunk eating is one of the Forbidden joys of life She slams the door and Shuffles around yelling By the time I'm done the burrito She is telling me to sleep on the couch Which is fine because I can't Feel my mouth anyway The burrito is so **** spicy I tell her this and that her Kisses would be wasted If she wants to waste her time With me, I want to feel it We sleep together for The night
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41
It's time for lunch And I want food Something with a punch Something really good... I ordered a burrito With delicious pulled pork Its a little big though I might need a fork... I'm ready to eat This incredible dish I go and take a seat And fulfill my wish Bite after bite, heaven reaches my lips As every taste bud meets an angel This wonder perched upon my fingertips Takes me beyond to an untold fable Delicate mixtures of cheese and cream Succulent pieces of tender meat Miraculous flavor beyond that of a dream On a tortilla of silken soft wheat There is only one word left to say As the tasty story comes to a close Returning from this indulgent fey Feeling like a remarkable rose Incredible...
0
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 2:16 PM UTC
lady-narnia
Munchies
It's time for lunch And I want food Something with a punch Something really good... I ordered a burrito With delicious pulled pork Its a little big though I might need a fork... I'm ready to eat This incredible dish I go and take a seat And fulfill my wish Bite after bite, heaven reaches my lips As every taste bud meets an angel This wonder perched upon my fingertips Takes me beyond to an untold fable Delicate mixtures of cheese and cream Succulent pieces of tender meat Miraculous flavor beyond that of a dream On a tortilla of silken soft wheat There is only one word left to say As the tasty story comes to a close Returning from this indulgent fey Feeling like a remarkable rose Incredible...
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25
I have lost all control. Having kids was not my best idea. I am at my wits end. Why does my bathroom look like it snowed? Stop climbing on that coffee table Leah! I have lost all control… Do not play in the road! Who puts pimento spread on a tortilla? I am at my wits end! These socks should not be a la mode… Im selling you kids to South Korea. I have lost ALL control. Why is my banister starting to corrode? I’m going to need stock in IKEA… I am at my wits end… My sanity is leaving by the busload. Who knew crayons cause diarrhea? I have lost all control! I AM AT MY WITS END!!!
0
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 4:55 PM UTC
julie-anne-lail
Parental Control
I have lost all control. Having kids was not my best idea. I am at my wits end. Why does my bathroom look like it snowed? Stop climbing on that coffee table Leah! I have lost all control… Do not play in the road! Who puts pimento spread on a tortilla? I am at my wits end! These socks should not be a la mode… Im selling you kids to South Korea. I have lost ALL control. Why is my banister starting to corrode? I’m going to need stock in IKEA… I am at my wits end… My sanity is leaving by the busload. Who knew crayons cause diarrhea? I have lost all control! I AM AT MY WITS END!!!
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19
Mamacita hold me dearly under folds of black hair where light can't shine I feel the warmest with my nose pulling deep breaths of floral shampoos and hot mesoamerican corn tortilla from the oven with pepper carnitas drifting through cracks under locked bedroom doorhandles, in the bed and under an azetec starred quilt duvet between sunshine brown arms with tiny black feminine hairs, I think about dinnertime at seven with my warm Mamacita and her cousins and of all the caring people L.A shared with me.
0
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC
chase-graham
Los Angeles Angels
Mamacita hold me dearly under folds of black hair where light can't shine I feel the warmest with my nose pulling deep breaths of floral shampoos and hot mesoamerican corn tortilla from the oven with pepper carnitas drifting through cracks under locked bedroom doorhandles, in the bed and under an azetec starred quilt duvet between sunshine brown arms with tiny black feminine hairs, I think about dinnertime at seven with my warm Mamacita and her cousins and of all the caring people L.A shared with me.
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14
scraping salsa off a festive snowman infested paper plate I asked myself about the meaning of life my last tortilla chip cracked under the pressure of my thoughts and I was left with salty finger tips and a half empty stomach I guess when you’re living in personalized, small-sized pizza of a school the food is never filling and questions are never answered No matter how many times I tell myself I know what I’m doing, I wake up every morning just as lost at the day before cracking my dreams like chips, bitter as the salt on my finger tips, I’ve become a half empty stomach impossible to fill one of these days I’ll be a home-cooked meal— mashed potatoes salted just right, sweet biscuits that crumble, never crack— iced tea with the taste of sugar, just enough to savor, I swear I could go on forever about my idealized platter that one day I will feast on in my confident contentment.
0
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 7:33 PM UTC
natalie-walker
You are What You Eat
scraping salsa off a festive snowman infested paper plate I asked myself about the meaning of life my last tortilla chip cracked under the pressure of my thoughts and I was left with salty finger tips and a half empty stomach I guess when you’re living in personalized, small-sized pizza of a school the food is never filling and questions are never answered No matter how many times I tell myself I know what I’m doing, I wake up every morning just as lost at the day before cracking my dreams like chips, bitter as the salt on my finger tips, I’ve become a half empty stomach impossible to fill one of these days I’ll be a home-cooked meal— mashed potatoes salted just right, sweet biscuits that crumble, never crack— iced tea with the taste of sugar, just enough to savor, I swear I could go on forever about my idealized platter that one day I will feast on in my confident contentment.
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16
My Fingers Touch... (an offshoot of an older poem...) It happens any minute of any day...the empty feeling...the sadness, the grief visit...all are put on hold...yet, they make me realize all the more, grieving isn't over yet... i think of the ones gone...but, there are people around me, with pressing needs...faces that get bored, but can't be ignored, needing my say and my care. Mornings, i work around visible reminders...i touch them, i feel them...they take me back, while dusting old furniture, window sills, and curtain frills. My fingers touch the old bookshelf, i see Tortilla Flat, Perry Mason, The Raven, The Virginian i find myself in a different era. My fingers touch old framed pictures and photo albums, and i am slowly unburdened, sighing out unwanted energy. My fingers touch the old bed, the old seal, the old vases...i am saddened, but comforted, by tangible souvenirs. My fingers touch my temples, and the old memories, old dreams come back... it's the same face with the smile that never fades, the same one that still shyly reassures me. Never saw my father, yet he always smiled at me in my dreams. perhaps, it was his way of telling me, he wasn't physically with me, yet, he never left me. despite his absence, he knows me, us, and we know him well. i felt him closest when going through a dilemma, or when i was ill. there was this loving presence, only i can know...i was sure it was him i miss the comforting warmth of those moments. My mother had told us more than enough---their love story, dreams and plans cut short where I got the shape of my face, my nose, my legs...my fingers even my allergies, the funny names he called my siblings and I, his funny tales, his rocking chair the events when he died...how he died where he died...what time he died. We knew him well through those stories my late mother told us through those accounts passed down to us by my late aunts through my dreams that never have faded. I realized he was with us, all the way silently...invisibly ...we never lost him at all... Sally Copyright March 28, 2015 Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
0
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 8:14 PM UTC
sally-a-bayan
MY FINGERS TOUCH.....
My Fingers Touch... (an offshoot of an older poem...) It happens any minute of any day...the empty feeling...the sadness, the grief visit...all are put on hold...yet, they make me realize all the more, grieving isn't over yet... i think of the ones gone...but, there are people around me, with pressing needs...faces that get bored, but can't be ignored, needing my say and my care. Mornings, i work around visible reminders...i touch them, i feel them...they take me back, while dusting old furniture, window sills, and curtain frills. My fingers touch the old bookshelf, i see Tortilla Flat, Perry Mason, The Raven, The Virginian i find myself in a different era. My fingers touch old framed pictures and photo albums, and i am slowly unburdened, sighing out unwanted energy. My fingers touch the old bed, the old seal, the old vases...i am saddened, but comforted, by tangible souvenirs. My fingers touch my temples, and the old memories, old dreams come back... it's the same face with the smile that never fades, the same one that still shyly reassures me. Never saw my father, yet he always smiled at me in my dreams. perhaps, it was his way of telling me, he wasn't physically with me, yet, he never left me. despite his absence, he knows me, us, and we know him well. i felt him closest when going through a dilemma, or when i was ill. there was this loving presence, only i can know...i was sure it was him i miss the comforting warmth of those moments. My mother had told us more than enough---their love story, dreams and plans cut short where I got the shape of my face, my nose, my legs...my fingers even my allergies, the funny names he called my siblings and I, his funny tales, his rocking chair the events when he died...how he died where he died...what time he died. We knew him well through those stories my late mother told us through those accounts passed down to us by my late aunts through my dreams that never have faded. I realized he was with us, all the way silently...invisibly ...we never lost him at all... Sally Copyright March 28, 2015 Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
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39
after you drink, enough as i have, you get the strangest recipes enter your mind...                and you're not as lazy a marijuana smoker either... you really start imagining things, that aren't, or shouldn't be there, but later materialise, and are actually there.                   like tonight,                   **** me... getting drunk can really give you the munchies...                 i was like: it can't be as simple as crisps from a packet... it can't be ready made, there, at an arm's reach... so it began:                                               bacon,                   cherry tomatoes...                            garlic paste...                  crème fraîche!                          parsley to garnish!                              pickled chilies!             turmeric!                      kashmiri chili powder!             processed cheese! (laughing cow type)...            i swear i missed something...    oh yeah...  brassica juncea - or mustard greens,    something a bit like lettuce...      but if packaged, also includes red cabbage snippets... plus arugula (eruca sativa), also a plant / rocket...          and the carbohydrate canvas to serve it on?                                                          a tortilla! i swear, i should either stop drinking, or stop drinking up recipes, when drunk...   either that, or what i'm tasting, when drunk, tastes really good, or that... well... if someone sober would dare to eat what i conjure up drunk, would simply puke... don't know, i conjure this recipe out of my *** and it stays down... it's not like i'm frying a dog's **** all of a sudden...            if it stays down, and you get to digest it? it can only be as bad as it sounds, with you not having ****** around with the stated ingredients, to whatever palette of proportion that your palette's suited to entertain.     don't know, i swear no marijuana smoker would go as far as to invent something like this...             you drink... you do get hungry...                                      and then you experiment, for some ****** reason that no one seems to be able to explain. i get right into cooking something up,       primarily because when doing chemistry at university, the most enjoyable chapter was organic chemistry... and that was like cooking... i can't say i'm boasting... i don't know if a sober person would find this recipe appealing...             but having made it drunk, i'm pretty sure another drunk would eat it and conclude the same as i: ****** genius... never take me to a kebab takeway... ever again!                     oh gee me...                             clap clap. by now i might as well insinuate that i'm faking   sniffing lines of ******* by the buzz of positivity i'm feeling.
0
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 8:12 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
a drunk chef (tortilla)
after you drink, enough as i have, you get the strangest recipes enter your mind...                and you're not as lazy a marijuana smoker either... you really start imagining things, that aren't, or shouldn't be there, but later materialise, and are actually there.                   like tonight,                   **** me... getting drunk can really give you the munchies...                 i was like: it can't be as simple as crisps from a packet... it can't be ready made, there, at an arm's reach... so it began:                                               bacon,                   cherry tomatoes...                            garlic paste...                  crème fraîche!                          parsley to garnish!                              pickled chilies!             turmeric!                      kashmiri chili powder!             processed cheese! (laughing cow type)...            i swear i missed something...    oh yeah...  brassica juncea - or mustard greens,    something a bit like lettuce...      but if packaged, also includes red cabbage snippets... plus arugula (eruca sativa), also a plant / rocket...          and the carbohydrate canvas to serve it on?                                                          a tortilla! i swear, i should either stop drinking, or stop drinking up recipes, when drunk...   either that, or what i'm tasting, when drunk, tastes really good, or that... well... if someone sober would dare to eat what i conjure up drunk, would simply puke... don't know, i conjure this recipe out of my *** and it stays down... it's not like i'm frying a dog's **** all of a sudden...            if it stays down, and you get to digest it? it can only be as bad as it sounds, with you not having ****** around with the stated ingredients, to whatever palette of proportion that your palette's suited to entertain.     don't know, i swear no marijuana smoker would go as far as to invent something like this...             you drink... you do get hungry...                                      and then you experiment, for some ****** reason that no one seems to be able to explain. i get right into cooking something up,       primarily because when doing chemistry at university, the most enjoyable chapter was organic chemistry... and that was like cooking... i can't say i'm boasting... i don't know if a sober person would find this recipe appealing...             but having made it drunk, i'm pretty sure another drunk would eat it and conclude the same as i: ****** genius... never take me to a kebab takeway... ever again!                     oh gee me...                             clap clap. by now i might as well insinuate that i'm faking   sniffing lines of ******* by the buzz of positivity i'm feeling.
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57
If you are what you eat, my best friend is tortilla soup. Warm and comforting a perfect companion for cold, bleak nights. If you are what you smell, my father is a California wildfire; pungent and strong, but a sweet warm oak like a winter stove. A smell strong enough to remain with you even after many days since his absence. If you are what you hear, my grandma is the coos of too many grandchildren, which eventually grow to songs of her praises, louder than a preacher who lives his weekdays only for his Sunday sermons. If you are what you see, my mother is the shells of little, pink snails that she collected as pets, until a woman, who some would call a mother, would salt them and cast them on her roof; a morbid decoration like those that lined her soul. If you are what you touch, my sister is the soft tufts of translucent blonde hair, of the babies she thought she may never have. If you are what you know, I am love.
0
Mar 20, 2019
Mar 20, 2019 at 9:23 PM UTC
hope-white
Who are you?
If you are what you eat, my best friend is tortilla soup. Warm and comforting a perfect companion for cold, bleak nights. If you are what you smell, my father is a California wildfire; pungent and strong, but a sweet warm oak like a winter stove. A smell strong enough to remain with you even after many days since his absence. If you are what you hear, my grandma is the coos of too many grandchildren, which eventually grow to songs of her praises, louder than a preacher who lives his weekdays only for his Sunday sermons. If you are what you see, my mother is the shells of little, pink snails that she collected as pets, until a woman, who some would call a mother, would salt them and cast them on her roof; a morbid decoration like those that lined her soul. If you are what you touch, my sister is the soft tufts of translucent blonde hair, of the babies she thought she may never have. If you are what you know, I am love.
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37
i try to look in the mirror before i leave but i barely recognize the face staring back. my skin looks too thin for my face and my eyes are not as bright as they used to be. i like the way my ribs ****** through the skin of my torso. the party is loud and slightly sweaty and no one seems to mind much that i’ve barely said a word and i don’t mind either but i want to go home, home with my soft bed and the quiet dark of my room and home where i can be alone. a girl i haven’t talked to in months nudges me and yells over the music God youre such a ****** with her wide teasing smile as i eat a tortilla chip and she doesn’t know that all i’ve eaten in the past six days is half of a small apple, in tiny precise bites she doesn’t know outside it’s cold and sharp and i wish i’d worn a longer dress or a coat and the only one out there is james who sometimes stares at me a little too long. he’s smoking as usual and he passes it without a word. i’ve had a few too many drinks and soon we’re laying in the damp grass and im crying and i admit how hungry, how ******* hungry i am, and he’s very quiet until he kisses me helplessly and i can’t stop crying it’s been over a year now and food is not my enemy anymore. we’re not friends but i can eat now and i let myself buy lunch a few weeks ago and i laughed along with everyone and didn’t think much about the calories passing my lips and it felt good baby steps, baby bites everything is becoming okay
0
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 8:04 PM UTC
m-6
bites
i try to look in the mirror before i leave but i barely recognize the face staring back. my skin looks too thin for my face and my eyes are not as bright as they used to be. i like the way my ribs ****** through the skin of my torso. the party is loud and slightly sweaty and no one seems to mind much that i’ve barely said a word and i don’t mind either but i want to go home, home with my soft bed and the quiet dark of my room and home where i can be alone. a girl i haven’t talked to in months nudges me and yells over the music God youre such a ****** with her wide teasing smile as i eat a tortilla chip and she doesn’t know that all i’ve eaten in the past six days is half of a small apple, in tiny precise bites she doesn’t know outside it’s cold and sharp and i wish i’d worn a longer dress or a coat and the only one out there is james who sometimes stares at me a little too long. he’s smoking as usual and he passes it without a word. i’ve had a few too many drinks and soon we’re laying in the damp grass and im crying and i admit how hungry, how ******* hungry i am, and he’s very quiet until he kisses me helplessly and i can’t stop crying it’s been over a year now and food is not my enemy anymore. we’re not friends but i can eat now and i let myself buy lunch a few weeks ago and i laughed along with everyone and didn’t think much about the calories passing my lips and it felt good baby steps, baby bites everything is becoming okay
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7
.           her **** sprinkled spine. her blackened fingertips from a day cleaning and smoking in the pre-spring heat. her knife atop the stump. memory is the root of mankind’s trouble. lullabies her mother used to sang, as the fish gasped and to the bone. wilderness, a strange enchanted girl. her bioluminescent tent. her blackened beans and tortilla-leaves and peelings of cheese. her knife to whittle a twig. her moments grow like gardens left alone to ghost-over. to sample the city wilderness & then slip further away into a rearview idea. new republic. paradise. she’s up that trail there.
0
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 3:49 AM UTC
CoopLee
cascadia
.           her **** sprinkled spine. her blackened fingertips from a day cleaning and smoking in the pre-spring heat. her knife atop the stump. memory is the root of mankind’s trouble. lullabies her mother used to sang, as the fish gasped and to the bone. wilderness, a strange enchanted girl. her bioluminescent tent. her blackened beans and tortilla-leaves and peelings of cheese. her knife to whittle a twig. her moments grow like gardens left alone to ghost-over. to sample the city wilderness & then slip further away into a rearview idea. new republic. paradise. she’s up that trail there.
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19
There was egg salad in the fridge, half a container of that store bought, neon-green guacamole that nobody else likes but me, tortilla chips too. So, we sat together and ate this hodgepodge lunch, the dog and I. She never once complained that there were no crackers or a few pieces of soft, white or even dark, crusty pumpernickel bread. We thought about whatever it was that we thought about while we chewed thoughtfully. I looked up the word: tincture in the dictionary that I keep in my office, right off the kitchen. A friend of mine had used the word in correspondence, and I was rather embarrassed that I’d not known what it meant. But, I found that embarrassment wanes when one is scraping the last few globs of guacamole out of the container with one’s finger and is saddened because the accompanying tortilla chips have been reduced to crumbs. The dog wasn’t embarrassed of me. She was busy cleaning the remnants of egg salad from the inside of the old butter dished I’d packed it away in. I’d already packed what had been enough for a decent sandwich away in my guts using tortilla-chip spoons, doing my best not to ***** more silverware than I had to. The hour was almost up; I had to be back at the office in about 15 minutes. We, the dog and I, took this small measure of time as an opportunity to listen to a couple of songs… one by Iron Maiden. the other by John Coltrane. While the discs spun, the dog wiped any excess egg salad or tortilla chip crumbs from her muzzle onto the living room carpet, by sliding around on her face. It was funny to watch. I’ll have to be sure and not tell Angela about it. Soon enough, it’s once more around the yard dear doggie, a Marlboro for me, another few hours at the office, little friend, and I’ll sail back home to thee. *** -JBClaywell © P&Z Publications 2019
0
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 5:32 PM UTC
jay-claywell
Sailing Back Home
There was egg salad in the fridge, half a container of that store bought, neon-green guacamole that nobody else likes but me, tortilla chips too. So, we sat together and ate this hodgepodge lunch, the dog and I. She never once complained that there were no crackers or a few pieces of soft, white or even dark, crusty pumpernickel bread. We thought about whatever it was that we thought about while we chewed thoughtfully. I looked up the word: tincture in the dictionary that I keep in my office, right off the kitchen. A friend of mine had used the word in correspondence, and I was rather embarrassed that I’d not known what it meant. But, I found that embarrassment wanes when one is scraping the last few globs of guacamole out of the container with one’s finger and is saddened because the accompanying tortilla chips have been reduced to crumbs. The dog wasn’t embarrassed of me. She was busy cleaning the remnants of egg salad from the inside of the old butter dished I’d packed it away in. I’d already packed what had been enough for a decent sandwich away in my guts using tortilla-chip spoons, doing my best not to ***** more silverware than I had to. The hour was almost up; I had to be back at the office in about 15 minutes. We, the dog and I, took this small measure of time as an opportunity to listen to a couple of songs… one by Iron Maiden. the other by John Coltrane. While the discs spun, the dog wiped any excess egg salad or tortilla chip crumbs from her muzzle onto the living room carpet, by sliding around on her face. It was funny to watch. I’ll have to be sure and not tell Angela about it. Soon enough, it’s once more around the yard dear doggie, a Marlboro for me, another few hours at the office, little friend, and I’ll sail back home to thee. *** -JBClaywell © P&Z Publications 2019
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73
You know when you’re like What the **** am I doing But you still do it? That’s me; doing stupid **** My back building a wall to her In bed when I just got TOLD That *** again would have made the night Perfect—so it wasn’t. Me with a glass of wine like ibuprofen And tortilla chips for xanax At 171.8 which is unacceptable for a runner. Doing stupid **** like echoing I love you Because if you don’t say it back You don’t mean it—which is bull. Somehow becoming OK with Saying things like I’ll get in trouble.
0
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 9:29 AM UTC
danielle-barroso
1
You know when you’re like What the **** am I doing But you still do it? That’s me; doing stupid **** My back building a wall to her In bed when I just got TOLD That *** again would have made the night Perfect—so it wasn’t. Me with a glass of wine like ibuprofen And tortilla chips for xanax At 171.8 which is unacceptable for a runner. Doing stupid **** like echoing I love you Because if you don’t say it back You don’t mean it—which is bull. Somehow becoming OK with Saying things like I’ll get in trouble.
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16
my chest has become the home of a one-eyed boa. when I was a child, this serpent was a child, but now my vivarium has become exceedingly small for this great snake as it grows and stretches my skin. I am not elastic. and as the mid drift coils around my black cavity chest, part slithers up my throat, causing me to gargle and choke, silencing me into silence, while the remaining 1/3 slides through a short tube to my stomach. I am nauseous. this is the feeling when your boy is playing soccer and it’s all you can do to not think of how he smells like grass and sweat and soccer and how you would love to wrap your fingers around him. and for a severed second I am waiting for nachos. and for a severed second I thought I was a warm, golden tortilla chip that someone would want to crunch in their mouth. This is the feeling when he gives another girl his jacket and walks her to her car and she compliments his eyes and calls him by the nicknames you thought were yours. and for a severed second you think of all the reasons you know you are inadequate. like brown eyes withholding the freckles and like the fact that you can’t command your own skin or the way that it tears. I am not stuck in a rut. I am the grand canyon, stuck in myself without any water to drown myself in. I am not made of acne, I am a pimple. and i’m every pimple on all the faces of my lovers who gave up trying or let me sink quietly into the background as doe-like females sauntered into the fore- I am not a spot I am a speckle that rides on the backs of spindly spiders I am orange. I am poison. I am not the geese but the pond. ***** overgrown and stagnant. she is his rock and his river and I though he was mine.
0
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
mollie-b
BOA
my chest has become the home of a one-eyed boa. when I was a child, this serpent was a child, but now my vivarium has become exceedingly small for this great snake as it grows and stretches my skin. I am not elastic. and as the mid drift coils around my black cavity chest, part slithers up my throat, causing me to gargle and choke, silencing me into silence, while the remaining 1/3 slides through a short tube to my stomach. I am nauseous. this is the feeling when your boy is playing soccer and it’s all you can do to not think of how he smells like grass and sweat and soccer and how you would love to wrap your fingers around him. and for a severed second I am waiting for nachos. and for a severed second I thought I was a warm, golden tortilla chip that someone would want to crunch in their mouth. This is the feeling when he gives another girl his jacket and walks her to her car and she compliments his eyes and calls him by the nicknames you thought were yours. and for a severed second you think of all the reasons you know you are inadequate. like brown eyes withholding the freckles and like the fact that you can’t command your own skin or the way that it tears. I am not stuck in a rut. I am the grand canyon, stuck in myself without any water to drown myself in. I am not made of acne, I am a pimple. and i’m every pimple on all the faces of my lovers who gave up trying or let me sink quietly into the background as doe-like females sauntered into the fore- I am not a spot I am a speckle that rides on the backs of spindly spiders I am orange. I am poison. I am not the geese but the pond. ***** overgrown and stagnant. she is his rock and his river and I though he was mine.
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49
I put my butterscotch in the refrigerator Next to the bananas, three loaves of bread, tortilla strips just under the styrofoam cups In the cupboard, I keep my ground beef. Don't worry, I put it in freezer bags, I'm not an idiot. I challenge everyone I meet to a staring contest The first time I lost was to a homeless man. He had a way of staring at something (and nothing) at the same time. He told me it's a skill you learn when you are perishable goods. Here I was trying to preserve things I would only use once. I don't even know what butterscotch looks like.
0
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
spras
Overprivilegded White Kid
I put my butterscotch in the refrigerator Next to the bananas, three loaves of bread, tortilla strips just under the styrofoam cups In the cupboard, I keep my ground beef. Don't worry, I put it in freezer bags, I'm not an idiot. I challenge everyone I meet to a staring contest The first time I lost was to a homeless man. He had a way of staring at something (and nothing) at the same time. He told me it's a skill you learn when you are perishable goods. Here I was trying to preserve things I would only use once. I don't even know what butterscotch looks like.
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16