I’ve ordered Some sweet potato chips And a quarter chicken At TGIF, the fast food chain, Waiting for a moment of madness, Of gravity prone food, That accumulates the pounds Around my waste, and yet I would rather be cumbersome Than spending a life Of window shopping, And passing, on life’s little joys, Like a
Day: August 15, 2017
I began like an indiscreet crumpet With holes in my poetry. I’m no perfect poet, I’m just policing words, Controlling their traffic, With my baguette like limbs, And all I want is, to be, just like a pancake, Defined by an equation, approximating To flaw-deficiency, and yet I will only be good around the curves
My mom makes French Fries With an air fryer, her intentions, Of keeping us healthy, curbing The LDL Cholesterol to a minimum. So you wonder, why are we so scared Of an angina and death. We are not Shatterproof creatures, and death Is when your heart shatters to minuscule Pieces. Of course, there are the
Pasta comes in all shapes and sizes, But spaghetti is always A long stretch of flour, that unlike A straw fails to keep the shape. Penne makes diagonals, while Raviolli is stuffed. And yet nothing beats the farfalle The little butterflies that creep through the throat To make a bout of hunger disappear. Pasta is
. Video killed the Radio star. In that moment the cold war ended and so died Innocence, at the hands of the video tape. We were too young to realize That each decade defines a genre A style, a fashion, a craze, or even a bubble That explodes with little warning In 2017, while
