"wedges" poems
I like my potatoes
Any way they are cooked
Hashbrowns or French fries
Plain boiled and salted
Mash potatoes
Potato salad
With golden butter on top
Spicy wedges or chips
I'd even eat it without dip
Too much isn't good
But I give in to pleasure
The possibilities to have potatoes
Are just an endless measure
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC
There's a calmness to the air of the trailer park
As the dumpster in the back slides to the right
Underneath is where our Super Hero has his lair
And where adventure starts out every night
For years now it's been the same old routine
Belches as he wobbles to his feet
Throws the remote down on the beer stained couch
Scratches his rear at the same time picking his teeth
Yes, the night belongs to Beer Belly Batman
Who spends his time fighting petty crime
From spitting on the sidewalkers to mouth full of food talkers
Putting them back in their place and back in line
Sure he used to be a top notch crime fighter
Evil forces he always did foil
But after years and years of beating crime up
The beating on him has taken its toll
If the neighbors music is to loud feel free to call him
Nothing he likes better than knocking heads of unruly kids
Hey Punk! Pull Your Pants Up! Is his favorite motto...
Giving Super Hero Wedges like nobody's biz
I don't know about you but this much is true
I always feel a little more safe and sound
And sleep that much better at night
Knowing there's a White Trash Super Hero around
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 8:04 AM UTC
Time rolls
its mossless stone
slowly tonight.
It is as though the
tic
has lost it's
toc.
Seconds have become
thirds, fourths, fifths.
So slowly does
the smallest hand
move upon the cracked face.
Minutes no longer tiny minute things.
But now gargantuan wedges
of pie.
So large as to feed
history's poor twice over.
Hours are unpowered,
flacid flat balloons
without breath or form
smothering all thought.
The grandfather clock
in the hallway
has embraced senility
and no longer
completes it's
pre-ordained
preambulation
around the
captured sundial.
It has now given itself
airs and graces.
Believing in heart and mind,
and cog and pendulum,
to be a jazz percussionist
banging, tapping and ringing
in an off beat tempo
somewhat lacking in
basic rhythm.
So time runs
with the scatterd
predictabality of the Tardis.
Bigger on the inside.....
Slower on the darkside
of the grandfather clock.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 5:09 AM UTC
Only men remember the names of their cars,
the make and model and the year they got them.
They can recall the feeling on their thighs
from the cushioning of luxurious leather
as they slide in with a longing sigh.
There is no will power known to man
that can keep their fingers from caressing,
the steering wheel spinning in their fantasy drive.
Eyes scanning the dash to inspect the odometer
praising the low mileage of where she's been driven
fooling himself that he's the driver that counts.
If only they understood the true lust of leather
comes in the form of wedges or stilettos,
and not only noticed when they're kicked off.
Which, by the way, are Pradas,
sold by Neiman Marcus,
bought last month at Fifth and Grand.
Sep 3, 2009
Sep 3, 2009 at 12:31 PM UTC
break the poem
open like a pomegranate
spill the seeds
squeeze the juice
and
**** the flesh
when we were kids
we played in
mother's garden:
carrots, strawberries,
rhubarb, tomatoes,
plums, raspberries,
cucumbers, pumpkins,
green beans, watermelon,
onions, potatoes
and
a goldfish named Pierre
he died after
my parents
cleaned his tank
and didn't rinse
it properly
done in by soap--
life can be such a
fragile thing sometimes
we buried him
in the garden
and marked his
grave with a
smooth river stone
one summer
we picked a great
big watermelon
from its dirt nap;
heavy as a bowling
ball and green
as a cat's eye
we heaved it onto
the picnic table
and carved it into
smaller
and smaller wedges
until each one
of us was holding
our very own
chunk of melon
everyone dug in
after admiring their
piece for a moment;
eating it with
their eyes
before their
mouths
but as I went
to bite into mine
I noticed a seed
in the way
so I peeled
at it to free it
and as I fingered
the dripping flesh
of the fruit
the 'seed' revealed
itself to be
not a seed at all
but the eye
of a goldfish
staring back at me
lodged in the melon
in its death throws
gasping for
breath in the
open air
its mouth opening
and closing like
it had a secret
to tell
I stood there
in stupefaction
when suddenly
it slipped free of
its womb
and landed in the grass
behind me
but when I
turned around
to retrieve it
I couldn't find it
there was no goldfish
anywhere in that yard
I checked under
my feet
under the picnic table--
under other people's
feet--nothing
"what are you
looking for?" someone
asked
"nothing," I said,
because who
would've believed it
anyway?--I'm not
even sure if I did--
"just thought I dropped
something."
I stood back up
feeling different
about the world--
like the mystery
ran deeper than any
of us realize--
looked at
my hunk of fruit
and discovered
I wasn't hungry
anymore
so I put
it down on
the picnic table
and walked over
to Pierre's grave
there, underneath
that river stone,
was a watermelon seed
just beginning to
sprout
I smiled in
bewilderment
and gently covered
it with fresh soil
moving the stone
a few centimeters
off the sprouting seed
'Pierre, the watermelon
fish,' I thought--
wiping the dirt
from my hands--
'I wonder what
death has in store
for me?'
Mar 13, 2021
Mar 13, 2021 at 9:45 AM UTC
Miles and borders
wedges
Wanderlust children
locked in the Sun's hula hoop
claim visions of sugarplum prairies
Downplayed mountains
speckle the globe
like tectonic acne
Topography's tease
The paper was so promising
Dimensions spawn
in the tatters of ambition
like fused particles of
colloquial bridges
Keyboards sprout vocal chords
and philosophies huddle under
shy amusement
humming to the hymn of a discovery
wrapped up in the chords
of enraptured choirs of fingertips
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC
****** bone feathers and yellow beak imbedded in brain
exposed an aviary corpse when the burial dust settled
the last Dodo fell with eighty eight avocado trees cut
down that day and they fell like tipped cows slow
slow fast thud dirt sprayed like winter breath
but before trees tumbled and avocados
rolled downhill north sawteeth
scratched bark and cut
at one hundred fifty
degree angles
and wedges
pried tree
trunks
while the last Dodo slept in the last inhabited Dodo nest
like the last of a long genealogy abhorring what was left
of a final family
a weak decrepit Jones or Smith
tumbles down stairs
of a two story home
in Maine.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:27 PM UTC
(Written in 8th Grade)
As I grew up along-side of memories, I realized that my name grew with me; shaping and morphing itself into who I am today. But wouldn’t it be fun to not be me for a single day? Not have the name, Alice? I could be someone smiling bright, maybe Melina. Or might I try on the name Jessie. Nah, too laid back and chill; so I take the name off and put it back on it’s hanger. I could be haughty and proud, with my nose in the air; I could be a Penelope. I window-shop for more names, browsing among all the different personalities. Fern seems fun, friendly and cordial. Or I might stick around and act as a Sam. Boyish? Aw yeah. Just maybe not for me. I’ll be Stella, all book-sharp for a day or I could be a Chloé, exotic and beautiful. Or switch my style into the retro girly Natalie. What would it be, to have the name Katie, just for a day? Zoey, Liana, Stacy, Diane. Isabelle, Marilyn, Delia, Hannah. Maybe give my name an exotic twist, Alyssa? After trying on names of all kind, some just weren’t for me. Too ‘krazy’? Shy? Ecstatic? Cool? Like a huge circus parade with different costumes, the loud gaudy colors blinding me. Like all the different shoes at Aldo’s; sky-high heels, wedges, sandals, boots. I slip out the shoes, I peel off the names. Because for now, I’d like to stay in my own skin; as a plain old Alice.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 8:41 AM UTC
I did it
I bent the edges
now I have to find the wedges
the edge of a sphere
might be near
or a square, circle, cylinder
maybe a triangle or straight bar
find the form
inside the norm
its about perception
remember the inception
from stardust formed
from stardust one day returned
It's in and out of the mind
but you always need to be kind
striving to a higher complexity
and counting on universal elasticity
don't rush
take in the hush
before the bang
for a second you need to hang
move at an even rhythmic pace
when you bend time and space
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 8:54 PM UTC
Bevelled slick edges,
and reeaal eeaasy slopes.
Chilli dip wedges
with fresh artichokes.
Wanton loose wenches
and swivel hipped ******
Daft dawgs and dentures
and granddad - who snores.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 1:19 PM UTC
Black gravel and slime
soaked
in sallow streetlight
Rap music wedges through
the crack in a broken hinge
The dishwasher in the kitchen
swears
and drops a hot pan
A rich man in a rich car
cruises by, smothering my darkness
in headlights
highlighting the grime
on the toes of my Chucks
My break is up
But I will just
stay here,
toss my cigarette stub
in the greasy pepper can
and have
another
smoke
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 11:15 AM UTC
she manages to twist things into a lifetime wonder
but life is made up of losses, and finally
the picture stuns with clarity.
that she is merely an inexperienced truant-player on a roll
a rather silly heraldist of mundane matters
an astounding figment of wonder.
she holds in her right hand jagged wedges of exquisite thrills
which she feeds slowly to the roiling storm
one by one - by one.
on the edges of the larcenous cloud, she sits and waits
while throwing down pebbles of trying events
all soft-cloaked in secret mirth.
she grips in her left hand a galaxy of recalcitrant injuries
that, two by two, she lets orbit off into space
greet them in serene farewell.
S T, 10 May 2013
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 4:52 PM UTC
Everyone’s so **** far
away
Everything is on steroids
And as all we know
Swells to sizes more
Than even god planed
They inevitably come in between us
The way a 70 inch TV splits a family apart
To opposite hemispheres of their “living”- room -world
“Can you hear me over there Brother? Sister?”
“Not listening.”
“Can’t see you.”
Electronic wedges that push us farther
And farther from our fathers
“Dad I just called because you never
answered my textual message
And email is too slow as you well know.”
“Come home son.” He concedes
“I lost my way home pop.”
“You’re right, I guess the 50’s are done and The Wonder Years
is long out of syndication.”
So I’m an alien on this ******* like stretch of land.
Ponce de Leon would claim it for his peninsula as
A peninsula of eternal life
A greater man than I would label it “The happiest place on earth.”
But all I know is this:
This earthen ***** might as well be an island off the coast of nowhere
Gainesville might as well be in Russia, rather
The Steppes of Asia Minor
And you most certainly are
An aberration from a softer night far ago
I guess I’ll see it all half full and live
In my State of Confusion
Located somewhere between the North and South Pole
Call it self pity, but no one but people like me understand
The concept of one million miles
Meet me halfway, someplace if you agree
Live in States of Unknown
So then you will
Always have a home
Dec 23, 2009
Dec 23, 2009 at 2:19 PM UTC
a torn sole which collect
painful rocks all along the
way.
the heels have collected
wedges formed by the
pounding of the stone.
collection of scruffs that's
formed rough art from the
miles of travel each day.
tied to fake comfort to
makes the steps easier
to make.
old and no longer needed
but faith has it grips to say
take one more step today.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 2:29 AM UTC
Lunch rush was hell for the new girl,
stacking foamed cappuccino cups
and stirring spoons in a broken-handled
bus tub while trying not to slip
on soft ice and discarded lemon
wedges. She took our mugs,
and told us about a guy
—Dave, she said. I don't know.—who sat
with his friend, comparing *** to work
over the rusted cabinet tracks
of his warped fork scraping
his egg-caked plate.
Dave's friend was leaned in
with a cocked grin waiting
for one of Dave's "Classic Dave" punchlines,
which I'm guessing are all witty,
the funniest *******
things you've ever heard,
but there wasn't one
this time
because there's nothing funny about
a ***** intern cringing beneath the weight
of fat Dave and his brick
paperweight jammed in her back.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 2:08 AM UTC
Sneakers, loafers, sandals, chelsea,
stilettos, wedges, platform, scarpin
I think it's fine to categorize shoes 'cause they serve different purposes
Dress pants, jeans, corduroy pants,
leggings, chinos pants, sweat pants
I think it's fine to categorize pants 'cause they serve different purposes
Black, white, brown, fat, athletic, skinny,
rich, poor, smart, introvert, extrovert, gay, lesbian, straight, Christian, Muslim
I don't think it's fine to categorize humans because we are all ONE from the same SOURCE with the same PURPOSE!
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 9:34 AM UTC
*blinded by startling light,
can one really
see?*
mild visions sitting in the dark corners
of shame
strong options flying about
in wild abandon
demanding resentful attention
no epiphany on the steep edge of nerves
just constant and silent grating
escalating the fatalistic complexion
of old wounds
seeping through the rotten bandage
of sickening pretense
rank blood-clots scream such fine expletives
your curling toes may not cope with
which one is chosen..?
dual visions
of life and death
opponents on the same board
no coercion in choice
neither works solo
third option hides
beneath the burning scales of judgment
live through life and death
cut through the slices
of pain
even serrated wedges are better managed
than large edifices
yes, far better to
CRE8 options
than swallow the superb crap that Life shoves
just, who in hell said:
there's only one way...
*visions can be
overturned*
S T, 9 July 2013
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 3:45 PM UTC
walking with wedges always seems like the best, until
you’re walking home at seven in the morning.
i still taste cold pizza and the pina colada hookah.
i waited for you to breathe me in like the vapors,
youth has never tasted so beautiful, love.
i used to think i was the period in every sentence,
but you’re the comma and i’m the semi colon,
we’re never ending, sticking between awkward
phrases and short cut
sentences.
he never sunk his teeth so deep, and i am so bruised
i think my bones are bleeding.
youth has never tasted so beautiful, love.
i did not feel alive until five in the morning, when all i could feel
were his fingers digging in my cells, searching for everything
i thought i could never become.
i never felt this alive in his arms, and now i see all he did
was pull the blindfold until i saw inky blackness,
pushed the pillow in my mouth as i continue to cough up chunks.
let me run through the soggy leaves, breathing in the crisp air until
i collapse.
youth has never tasted so ******* beautiful,
love
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
Listless.
the psychology of a social construct so easily broken down.
cracks so exposed and well worn wedges do pleasures deeds.
electromagnetic synapses delving into the degree of damage.
Prose for ill minds comes in droves and withholds no force.
fates memory holds in high regard the lasting forgotten.
drowned stone fire pits lost within reflections craters
Tis so easily tapped through wayward degrading honesty
neither gasp nor exclaim as treacherous glare busts horizons
Proclaim righteousness for the still air of true possibilities
crushing microcosmos with known unfounded pestilence
Flare and stone berate the cold states of spectrum reach
Reminders on the dust tails of impact praise residing
well woven whispers dilute the hollow hold resonating
but of course destruction impact anguish abides
but of course destruction. sculptors require fire.
Aug 11, 2012
Aug 11, 2012 at 12:32 AM UTC
i slice wedges
and suddenly realize
i am not unlike
the tuber i'm cutting so
-maliciously-
this chunk of earthy flesh
takes many shapes&forms;
constantly changing
yetalwaysstill
a potato
a seed unto itself
ready to spread roots
wherever it may land
living in dark solitude
yet always reaching up
towards light-
towards life-
i find a hidden bad spot
and carefully [eradicate it]
such a good potato
should not go to waste
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 7:09 AM UTC
A beautiful torture, a delicate dance
If I want to even have a chance
Of how much affection to show, what to hold back
I don't know what you think, what feelings you lack
How much of what I think is real
Never knowing how you feel
Every now and then I look into your eyes
I see through the disguise
Other times your body language pushes me away
Keeping me at a distance, waiting in the gray
So I back off, not wanting to say things to soon
Not wanting what we have to lie in ruin
So I dance around the edges
Perouette around the wedges
Your passion shows me the way
For when we're alone, our hearts beat out the rhythm that our flesh moves to in the sway
I'm hoping that one day
Your lips speaks, to what your body already seems to say
Till then it's a beautiful torture, a delicate dance
Watching for the clues, if I even want a chance
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 12:29 PM UTC
Keep yourself.
Take it much further.
Punish the hammer.
Dance on the ledges.
Increase your wedges.
Eat the pie.
Eat the pie.
Eat yourself whole.
Grace the covers.
Take a holiday for granted.
Don't act like you didn't earn it.
You are the last of a dying breed.
You are the start of a coming race.
You are the zenith of civilized humans.
Culture your neighbors.
Show them behaviors.
Actions are louder,
Especially dynamite,
But you know to listen.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 9:52 AM UTC
I quite like plastic sandals,
**** shaped candles,
and big assed women in my bed,
I like artistic folks and ***** jokes
and piccalilli on rye bread,
I like big gay men and Tony Benn,
loud mouthed scousers and Steven Fry,
I like The small faces whisky chasers
and come home Lassie - made me cry.
I like the upturned curl
of ******** dog lip
the hurl and swirl
of big girl hip.
I like Bevelled slick edges
and reeaal eeaasy slopes.
chilli dip wedges
with fresh artichokes.
wanton loose wenches
and swivel hipped ******
daft dawgs and dentures
and granddad - who snores.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC
I was born
here in a Capital place,
as in DC, or so I'm told
by the yellowed scrap of paper
embossed with a seal,
which Birthers might say is forged,
but it's not, and that's
a happy circumstance for me,
because I hear folks like me
are different, maybe even
exceptional,
and with that lone American
difference comes a boat load of perks,
including the right to say
I don't see any difference
when it comes to simple
appearances,
but I do feel different
than those who want to speak
in the name of the same
old stupid conceit
that some belong
and some don't,
all the while they search
for differences
and seize on the might
to drive wedges
between us,
and if they end up driving out
our differences with this crocked-up
lack of a due process
cloaked in the flag, well that would be
the real crime.
May 3, 2010
May 3, 2010 at 3:14 PM UTC