rockstar 101
November 25, 2009
Dear _____,
I just wanted you to know, that if zombies came; I’d come to find you. No matter what. Even if my rag-tag band of survivors called me foolish, even if the odds were against me. I’d get the last of my ammunition, a tank of gas, and I’d drive to the city to find you. And I hope I would, find you. And I hope you’d be glad to see me. If you were a zombie when I found you, I’d consider letting you bite me, just for a second. But I’d probably end up shooting you in the head. I would however, be really, really sad about it.
Sincerely, ______
all i ever wanted, too dumb to surrender
January 12, 2009
conversation with an apple.
“How could I have stayed this way?
I wanted to grow for you, and shelter you.
To be anything but a seed.
So bite my skin, kill my potential
Grow taller, and become a tree.”
I’m no tree.
A Bonsai at best.
I am unfinished;
With a spotty trunk,
Scarred from the prunings,
My leaves are thin.
I tap on the apple.
Talk to it in Morse code.
Just beneath its flesh,
A brain in two halves
Wrapped around pituitary seeds.
Tossed down from a tree that didn’t need
This apple’s wisdom, and dreams;
As it has those all on its own.
That’s why trees send apples
Out in to the world.
In hopes that they will
Take root and grow.
And not become leathery midgets.
Yellow-brown husks.
Empty skulls.
The apple whispers its story
As I press my face closer:
“I have never smelled an orchard,
But tell me that they are full
Of things that smell
The way that you do.”
I apologize to the apple in Braille:
“I cannot bite and kill you.
I’ll hold you, and let you rot.
Make you into cider in my basement.
I’ll wait a season, and then I will
Drink deep of your wisdom,
Forget my thirst in your dreams.
I’ll be you and you’ll be me.
And neither of us will be…
Trees.”
i’d like to think that there’s someone writing a love poem on the wall of a subway tunnel in silver crayon, right now. that a little boy is sitting on an overturned whiskey barrel, holding his father’s spur up to the sun, counting the broken tines. his feet are kicking against the barrel, and he’s waiting for his daddy to come home. that if you wanted to, you could hear me breathe through this screen, hear the tiny music coming from these headphones. i’d like to think that the digital will mean as much as the flesh, that blood can speak in keystrokes.
i’m tired of thinking.
i’d rather believe.
Potato Soup (a poet’s recipe)
Two red potatoes chopped into triangles with skin on.
Moisten and coat the potatoes
A mixture of garlic powder, chili powder, sea salt and crushed red pepper
Should do just fine.
Two peppers red, and spicy. To be minced.
The pork chops: two, to be cut into bite size pieces.
Green peppers, two, cut into circles.
Fry potatoes, and green peppers in butter.
The green peppers begin to soften, when they do
Transfer the contents of your frying pan to a cookpot.
Also to the cookpot add a half gallon of milk,
A liberal dose of soy sauce,
Low heat, and a cup of rice.
Olive oil, minced peppers and pork cubes in the hot frying pan.
Brown the pork (does this term apply to the other white meat?)
Tan the pork
When your broth begins to simmer;
Add the pork and cover.
Cook the soup until your rice is
Soft and your pork is free of the
Danger of Trichinosis.
Remember to mind your soup
Stir it on occasion.
Milk has a tendency to explode.
