Last Supper

July 27, 2010 3 comments

A friend said to me,

you live to eat, I eat to live.

I’ve never felt more sorry for anyone.

Most days are just a matter of hanging on till the next tiny island of joy,

in the middle of a vast ocean of suffering.

The good never can outweigh the bad,

the scales will never balance,

and this is why I love food.

Unadulterated pleasure,

without complications,

and never more than mere hours away.

That’s how I get through a day,

thinking, always, in the back of my mind,

what will I make for dinner tonight?

Today is hot, miserably hot,

how about a refreshing gazpacho and some crusty bread?

There is more pure goodness in an honest bowl of soup,

than an assembly of saints.

There is more truth in the clean taste of fresh parsley,

and the subtle bite of good garlic,

sliced thin,

than there is in the law and the prophets,

and no one needs to live forever when one has eaten so well,

he is prepared to die.

Categories: Poetry

Response to Birthday Letters

July 26, 2010 1 comment

A Response to Birthday Letters

by Christina M. Hile

http://ragbone.wordpress.com/page/8/

We came into the world together,

or at least I can no longer recall a world where there was an I without a you,

Your sorrow will always be my sorrow,

but do not think that there is land where I can exist,

happy,

apart from you.

How could there by joy any land deprived of your

curiously fey grin,

the music of your shy laughter,

the glow of your xanthous skin,

or the conviction of your embrace.

Categories: Poetry

Ode to The Tomato

July 25, 2010 3 comments

I long to pluck you from the vine

to take you as you are simple, fresh, whole,

into my mouth.

To taste you so, your naked simplicity.

Perhaps later I will dress you simply with olive oil,

and coarse sea salt,

Later still, perhaps, I will coax from you the secrets you are loathe to share

with a little red wine.

Categories: Poetry

Retail Blues

July 24, 2010 1 comment

I’m done.

I cannot bear the weight of another smile,

fuck no I won’t have a nice day,

nor will I take care,

or “have a good one.:

Have a good what exactly?

aneurism,

stroke,

heart attack,

bout of palsy?

A plague on you sir,

and to hell with you,

to hell with your good day,

you can keep the change,

save up for that clue you’ve always been wanting.

Categories: Poetry

Tor-til-ah

July 23, 2010 2 comments

I pick up the package of flour tortillas,

think about making myself a quesadilla,

and I remember how you said the word tor-til-ah,

and how I would correct you,

with a Trebeck-esque pompous flair,

I marvel at what a pompous little ass I was.

I’ve had plenty of authentic mexican food since then,

and I don’t know if there’s such a thing as Bama-Mex,

but your shredded beef chimichangas were damn good,

no matter what you call them.

When you use an ingredient to make something taste that good,

you’ve earned the right to call it whatever you want.

Categories: Poetry

Quit

July 22, 2010 1 comment

Know when to quit

and you win

nobody ever wins anything

for just hanging on

but few have the cojones

so we just linger

like the the taste of grapefruit

the smell of cheap cologne

he second Bush administration

the last hour

of Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings

and this fucking poem.

Categories: Poetry

Dream Image

July 21, 2010 1 comment

Google it,

you come up with beautiful women,

fey creatures with gossamer wings,

and idyllic settings with diffuse lighting.

Does anyone actually dream that my little pony shit?

When I remember my dreams,

and I seldom do,

it’s mostly the nightmares that stick with me.

The ones where terrible things are being done to me,

or worse,

I’m doing terrible things to others.

Here’s a dream image for you,

more real than that postcard bullshit

imagine you are cutting small pieces off of someone you love,

force feeding them their own flesh

they vomit, and choke,

but you won’t ever stop,

then you wake up in cold sweat,

and check to see  if the body lying next to you is still warm and breathing,

you get out of bed,

and go down the hall to your son’s room,

just to make sure he’s alright.

Categories: Poetry