What I Am And What I Should Be

I was 26 when I became a rope,
stretched from loud brown cocktails to
the hush of burnt oven mits.

I was too thin to be stepped on,
so I just laid,
spread, fine butter for
Homemade Bread Men.

I went on as rope for two years,
reaching both ends of
limit. Ginger snaps
snapped back at me when
I raised a mother’s hand.
A trained ham clamming up, shaking
during the Spirits Earthquake.

I baked them by the dozen,
hard bread snaps to
braid me when I was bad.
Two years rowed its boat swiftly
and now
here I am.

A rope.
Spread thin over aging.
Frayed ends begging to be stayed.
They will not.
Time can not allow it, but time
will be easy on
middle belly.
Center ground.
That is what I should be.

Pig Man

My stove top is a scalding
temper; overflowing with
ferocious
boiled steam.

My vision is clouded but
I can still see
egotism dripping out of
his over-sized pores.

Someone gave him the body of
a man to hide in. When we
first kissed, his disguise was concrete, at least.
Now, I can see how heaviness
glazes over him, excreting from
inside out.

He is just a pig, with a
fat, round face and
short,
nothing legs.

He does not know that I know.
But he will.

He will know when stove top steam
becomes serene,

after
I thicken the repulsive cream of
his cowardice,
his fear,
his pretentious stench

and pour
it over his puffed-up
self-admiration, and melt
away his disguise.

Marinated Chops

Oh, God!

I woke up sizzling!
Left rear range,

chopped up,
marinated and lubricated,

giant
hands of circumstance
thrashing
me around gridiron with prickly
fingered sticks,

boneless.

Without hands to reach out
to the other pieces
frying,
roasting inches away from me.

Skinless.
Heartless.
Helpless.
Hopeless.

Left lonely with chunks of
thick bloody substance that
I was delivered with,

the delicate meat
that
made me whole,

without a mouth to
vocalize
my own company.

I miss them already!

The heat is getting heavy, I have
been left
simmering
since
sun progression – damn light!

Waking me up
to this!

 

He Is Allergic To Peanuts

We cooked, cooked together
smashed meat with boulders and fried it
on rocks. We drilled into eggs and
drank the yolk from it’s own shell.

We smiled at each other with leftovers
in our teeth…

I grated peanuts into piles of peanut dust behind my back, while
he played a song that
reminded him of me.

The music tickled on and he sang
and we sang together. We danced and we
danced together.
To the piano, we were not graceful
but the drums could tell we that we were delicate
and practiced; together.

My hand clutched the peanut dust tightly as
he held, held tightly onto my waist.
He spun me around to
face him, our eyes met.

He closed his eyes, we closed them together.
He leaned in to kiss me.
I leaned my lips to my hand and blew, blew
the dust in his face.

He was stunned – breathless. Choking, he fell to the floor, tears
puddling in his eyes and he cried,
we cried together.

 

 

The Stew…Part 2

Oh My! They have been stitched back.
All my pieces have
been reassembled. It must have
been when the cooking
wine drove me to
blackness.

I was lying in a knot
in front of the oven, where
my stew had been cooking. I left, from
the kitchen, into this blackness.
When I awoke,
my pieces were positioned back to
their former posts!

They are not what they used to be, not
nearly as attractive. Nobody else would
ever choose these parts! But,
they are perfect to me! Exactly how I want them!
I’m still hurting, the pain is jabbing – bulging in and out
at the stitiches.

I do not mind though. For now, I scream, I writhe in
agony, I attempt sleep in discomfort. It will fade though and My pieces will
never work how they used to.

The Stew

I am cut into pieces, boiling
in a stew. A quarter cup of the fingers have been
diced away along with
a chunk of the right breast,
both little toes,
the bones and muscle in the
right forearm, a kidney,
and the fallopian tubes.

Salt dances painfully on the wounds of
what remains of the body. I cry out for some relief!
There is nothing.
Anesthesia will not behave!

The stew boils about, my pieces
become soft and
flesh falls from bone. The crockpot screeches
with the heat – it knows!
But, I do not blame the crockpot. It
must perform it’s duty.
No choice for a hunk of metal!

I scream again! The pain! Where is comfort?
Where is solace?

Ah! Cooking wine!
Take care of my wounds.
Take the pain away…..
After some time, the alcohol performs it’s own duties.
I relax!

I hope the stew makes it to all those empty mouths!