"uncorking" poems
one more click
a button pressed
an ocean of toner evaporates
line by line by line
the hand that presses the buttons
connected to the brain from the word go
twitches, trying to remember:
the muscle memory of
sliding knives into delicate ******* of chicken
uncorking expensive bottles of wine
to drink, to cook with
to bandage bleeding fingers
cut to the quick by misplaced motion of
chef knives
remembering the gossamer touch of the sous chef
who said, in her northeast Philadelphia sing-song
applying Bactine, gauze and several different types of pressure
"hey, at least we aren't dying in cube-farms, right?"
the blood pours in the past, but now the bills are paid
the stain, long wiped away, still remains
hit. print.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 2:41 PM UTC
In our land of golden wattle,
I'll unstopper a bottle,
Uncork a magic genie,
Appearing cute and teeny,
She looks quite delicious,
Granting us three wishes
For Oz, quite ambitious,
What'll we wish for today?
In this magical genie way,
First, let's wish for full employment,
Then, an end for our youth deployment
In the Middle East, futile beast,
Last, we'll all wish for global peace,
Our wishes the genie does release,
I shall unstopper this magic bottle,
For our land of golden wattle!
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 12:17 AM UTC
He sneaks a bold finger into her navel.
She squirms in sudden protest.
He quickly lifts the damp hair from her neck
and kisses little apologies.
Her sigh forgives the intrusion, she rolls to her side
suddenly all hip and pale inner thigh.
He follows swiftly down the valley,
a little boy running home for dinner-
He hums a nothing song.
She quietly hums along.
He waits.
She says it first and means it.
His heart pulses twice at these prophetic murmurs.
Her mood quickly changes, leaps to her feet, flexing naked muscles
and pouting in comic exaggeration.
He laughs and softly adores her unselfconsciousness, this is new.
She bends to kiss him.
He remembers the oven is on.
She remembers the time.
He whistles Last Stand cheerily to the scorched vegetables.
All because she touched him inappropriately in the kitchen
in lieu of uncorking the wine.
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 6:55 PM UTC
Imagine yourself working hard, working
as if you were feeding your family of ten
How would you react the moment when
you're done, the reward, wine for uncorking
but the next day it's gone, everything is gone
you had a chance, were happy for all you
accomplished and it's gone. The worst drawn
feeling, known for and by, and there's nothing to
do, to try and change, but you don't try, because
why bother, it has left your life most likely lifelike like
facts, facts on the other side of a rushhouring road.
Loading, loading, new ideas in progress, a huge load
of chances coming up, but you're not even slightly interested
When the one important thing is gone, the rest falls along.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
I see everyone as bright-white in beauty
whereas in the shadows you shall find me.
Uncorking the wine to keep myself busy,
replacing blood-sugar, feeling dizzy.
I paint the cave with fruit juices and poppies,
intersecting patterns, carbon copies.
There is comfort to be found in lonely breath,
to contemplate life, the absence of death.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
On the road outside
Of the fence
The Border Collie hears
The call of the
Doggies
On the inside
Enclosed behind
The wooden fence
The Alaskan malamute
The Drever, the Poodle
Bustle the edge of the barrier
Bark, bark, bark
A cacophony
Let us out
Let us come with you
Pledging to obey,
The Collie
On hind legs
Of a towering stature
Lifts a paw
Finds the latch
The gate creaks open
Uncorking in celebration
They run in gleeful circles
Hounds to escape artists
Unbound and free from tyranny
Of a heartless master
Marking their new territory
Of tree trunks
Sidewalks and fields
Have you ever seen
Such jubilation
Mirth and gaiety
Wagging their tails
Like helicopter blades
With gail force glee
They take off
Like upside down rain
Up, up, up
Every which way
Friends forever
Boundless canines
In search of the next
immured pooch who waits
For the musketeers
Jan 21, 2025
Jan 21, 2025 at 9:55 AM UTC
[Enter Marco, a young Milanese courtier.]
_It is he, is it not, whose honeyed barbs drip with sweet condescension, and whose kisses taint fair Bianca’s lips with similar speech? Behold, how he frames her vision to reflect his own and directs her preferences accordingly.
Fie, I have been April’s fool in believing Antonio my ally. His encouragement was as sweetmeats to a greedy child; but I have chipped a tooth on that candy-coated morsel and found its centre to be flavoured with deceit.
My cousin Bianca, whose name speaks directly to her nature, whose light once made shadows dance for joy; how extinguished she appears now. For as Antonio sparkles and splutters at her side, her brilliance flickers and fades.
Lo, how he has seeded his untruths within her honest heart. His lies smuggled like contraband, his blandishments the articles of his trade. God’s wounds! Such a purveyor of frippery and falsehood I have never met the equal of.
It is high time to confront this sneak thief in his lurking-hole and to uncloak his creeping connivance. I shall bottle my rival’s words and choose carefully the occasion for their uncorking; then pour for the crowd a rich liquor of ripe requital._
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 3:03 AM UTC
We walked along
the flowered streets
and felt the gentle sunlight
dripping on our shoulders.
I think I smiled
for two days straight
and every laugh
was like the uncorking of champagne.
The buildings on either side of us were egg shell white
and just as delicate,
their slender bodies and effortless sophistication
somehow humble and full of history.
Every turn was met with unending beauty,
so much so that it made your eyes hurt
and your chest ache.
Winding streets slanted us in the right direction
and the smell of fresh bread, crepes
and something without a name
made our stomachs feel warm and full
and rumble too.
The dirtiest newsagents was a palace
and the grimiest bar the same,
the topsy turvy,
tipsy language in the air adding instant elegance
to the ***** walls,
the filth on the table tops somehow romantic.
We left the city
and it whispered goodbye,
through the car horns honking
and the dogs barking,
a melody most sublime.
We left the city
but it never left us.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC
It's not the amount of love I show to you and prove to you that is overwhelming,
it's the lack of love and respect you show to me and the staggering amount of your ******** I put up with.
I believe you when you say you love me.
I've believed you when you said you love me for the best four years.
I believe when you say that we could never work out.
Why ruin a good thing?
After all, that is what we have: a good thing.
So why am I so bitter?
Why do I not allow myself to sleep at night?
Not allow myself to put out the cigarette or stop myself from lighting the next?
Why do I not stop myself from uncorking the bottle or chugging longingly.
Why do I allow myself to be so angry at the world and at myself.
I ******* hate everything.
myself.
you.
the world.
my parents.
my friends.
the ****** bands.
the good bands.
This constant state of nothingness is starting to weigh down on me so I fill it with the bottles.
I fill it with the cigarettes and the hatred.
You?
Me?
Why?
After all, what we have is a good thing.
Isn't it?
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 11:59 PM UTC
it was so unbright yesternight in the closed nook of a pale painted swinging
swung tight, tightly swinging, quickly singing, breath of fast hair
from the timid article of light uncorking from thy precious bowl:
your remarkably hips. i quipped a sonnet on the marble jelly of your
cresting gluttonous ******* with my hands between the stocky virulent
oaks of your frail gently thighs. and your eyes were scorching, and the
breadth of hours tumbled open and wee
Mar 28, 2011
Mar 28, 2011 at 12:04 PM UTC
I thought it’d be easier
Like uncorking champagne -
Free flowing foam,
Inevitable fame.
But something inside me
Just dries up and quits.
I’ve run out of stories
I’ve scattered my wits.
Not that this matters
*** nothing remains -
A lighter sentence
Is all that I gain.
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 3:37 PM UTC
A bottle of you was not enough,
I needed the whole case
With every drop and fragrance let,
uncorking my embrace
To deeply breathe your sweet perfume
and drown in nectars dew
I try to sip but lose myself
—inside your vineyard true
(Rosemont Pennsylvania: April, 2022)
Apr 25, 2022
Apr 25, 2022 at 11:00 AM UTC
"N
o;"
she said, slowly,
the word dropping from her lips like the gentle uncorking
of a stopped-up bottle.
"No,
Maybe I won't do a great job.
I’ll do a
FINE job,
a
GOOD job,
a
~decent~ job,
an O-KAY JOB, an
ac
cep
table/ job.”
(First, she enunciated. Then, she spat.)
"Maybe--"
--she paused, for breath or consideration
as an overdue gleam
found it's way into her countenance--
"Maybe I'll do a MEDIOCRE
job. An AVERAGE job.
A /much-to-be-desired/ job.
Perhaps
I'll
do
a
SAD job, a SLOW job, a HACKNEYED job, a ~pathetic~ job!
MAYBE..."
...here, she paused again, as one should always do when giving a proclamation...
"...I'll do a BAD job.
And THAT'S O KAY."
Speech complete,
she sat--heaving--with her knees pulled into her chest.
After a good while
and a few kicked clumpfuls of grass,
she rose
and returned to her life,
doing just about as well
what she had done
before.
Jul 19, 2022
Jul 19, 2022 at 11:02 PM UTC