food

If our love opened a restaurant

poetry

If our love opened a restaurant
I seriously doubt it would stay
In business longer than a month

The décor would be a nightmare.
Clashing tones and tints competing
With lampshades something ill

Sitting patiently for a waiter to
Take your order would be like
Waiting for the next apocalypse

The chairs would grate against your
Soul like Monday morning, with its
Hard reality and lack of support

The music, (if they have any at all)
I imagine would be like Grandma’s
Lounge-room jazz- but more dreary

Don’t expect a warm smile with
Your service. The waiters are busy
And don’t have time to amuse.

If our love opened a restaurant
I seriously doubt it would stay
In business longer than a month

But did I mention the food?
Oh! The food is positively divine.

vocationally i could see myself being a man…

poetry

of edible wooden colored planks
and beaches of white powder sand
of grainy office carpet in brown and tan
and tile of white porcelain
of sunshine without any sunglasses
and eye gouging pain from squinting
of air conditioning, freezing cold bedrooms
and pounds of blankets while fighting sunburn
of mexican, italian, barbeque, pizza, burgers,
and beer, whine, scotch, gin, margaritas

of joy
of rest
of fun

but not so much of fame
i think it would go straight to my head
evening out my clown-esque feet of
10 gallon floppy enormousness
keeping me humble in my inevitable
slow mopey gait

–
p.s.
i’d call it my vacation vocation
and i’d walk tall and straight
proud of my disproportionately dense torso