Suspended in this plastic world, my heart a gaping wound if not for all the beauty in which it is cocooned. How would we salvage anything from war and greed and lust without art’s kind revision of all that is unjust to make us reclaim hope in life simply because we must? It’s the alchemy of nature to which we are beholden. It takes our baser natures, transforming them to golden.
A wizard in the kitchen, she performed well her thaumaturgy by transforming porridge into fine cuisine for me. Each dish she served just seemed my hunger to inflate as she put spells on my stomach and magic on my plate.
Her stew pot made by blood boil, her milk pudding made me purr, every single dish a symbol of my love for her. Then lying in her oaken bed, my hunger still intact, She finally quenched my appetite. And that, folks, is a fact!!!!!
I got a hot rod Ford, and a two dollar bill
And I know a spot right over the hill
There’s soda pop and the dancing’s free
So if you wanna have fun, come along with me
Say hey, good lookin’ – what ya got cookin’?
How’s about cooking somethin’ up with me?
I’m free and ready, so we can go steady
How’s about savin’ all your time for me? No more lookin’, I know I been tookin’
Hows about keepin’ steady company?
I’m gonna throw my date book over the fence
And buy me one for five or ten cents
I’ll keep it till it’s covered with age
Cause I’m writin’ your name down on every page
Say hey, good lookin’ – what ya got cookin’?
How’s about cookin’ somethin’ up with me?
Grooming tasks inside the the zoo seem to go on forever with so many body parts to clean or trim or sever, but when it comes to manicures, one group must be exempted, for when it comes to ungulates, the groomers are not tempted to attempt to trim the hooves of rhino or of elephant. Even the most burliest of manicurists find they can’t!!!
And in respect to dentistry, though elephants are easy, when it comes to giraffes, zoo dentists are most queasy. Giraffes are not unruly, capricious or uncouth. The problem is the distance between the turf and tooth. And thinning out a lion’s mane simply can’t be done. Relinquishing their hairs? They won’t part with even one.
And every time the groomers’ van goes into parking gear, far up in the shady green, the monkeys disappear. For though every mosquito, every flea and every tick that invades their body may itch or make them sick, inter-monkey grooming is a method sure to please better than the insect sprays, which only make them sneeze!
Both winner and loser give voice to their regret, for in this race to nowhere, there’s nowhere left to get. Noting the deficiency of all that’s left to win, they march around in circles, from here to where they’ve been. Observing all the patterns followed from the start, the trophy that they’ve won is, alas, a purple heart.
I’ve found I simply must inure myself to things I must endure. I’m overweight and immature and told my writing is obscure— written in a dialect that people find hard to detect.
I joined a gym, but now my trainer says he cannot make it plainer than to say I won’t lose weight until I choose to fill my plate with other food and smaller portions to decrease present proportions.
I thought if I became a spinner I’d become a weight-loss winner, but in fact, no pounds I’m doffing— only panting, wheezing, coughing. But I didn’t waste the time. At least I came up with this rhyme.
Now perhaps if you’d elect to check my poem’s dialect, you’d find that though my waist and thighs have not decreased in girth or size, perhaps I have lost one small thang. Have I lost, perhaps, my Dakota twang?
Written as calligraphy or scrawled upon a wall, a book tucked in our pocket or extending down the hall, expressed as tight couplets or as an angry stew, words impart great insight and volunteer a view into minds of wisdom or the hapless few who unfortunately have little else to do
but to spray-paint imprecations of gender or of race here in public places where all of us must face those dark spots of the soul brought into public view so volunteers of vitriol can share with me and you those murky muddy sentiments better buried deep instead of out here in the world to cause us all to weep.
If left to steep within the soul perhaps some inner magic might turn them into poetry—profound and deep and tragic. Some inner mental chemistry performing that gestation that makes insight of vitriol, transforming imprecation into understanding to write upon the pages of potential misanthropes transformed now into sages.
Diana Gabaldon’s romances are way too historic. Koolkosherkitchen‘s recipes? Delicious, but caloric. Mo Willems counts on pigeons to chase away the blues, but I’d never volunteer to fill any pigeon’s shoes due to my fear of flying, so even in a pinch, to read of being airborne causes me to flinch.
Can’t read Cormac McCarthy or Murakami either. When violence erupts in books, I have to take a breather. Harlequin romances are too mushily romantic, for I prefer my novels less sexually pedantic. All-in-all you might have guessed I’ve little left to read and so instead I write all day to satisfy my need
to hang out with a word or two that has not been written by writers such as those above by whom I’ve not been smitten. And though my poems aren’t edible or sexually explicit, violent or airborne, I feel it is implicit that I need an appointment with my therapist to see if I can even stomach silly verses penned by me!