Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Sonnet - Every Day Hot Dogs

I just put together my writing schedule for the rest of the month and it ... it scary. So here's a sonnet about hot dogs.


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Every Day Hot Dogs

While one school screams, “No ketchup!” the other
insists, “No mercy! Give us what you got!”
Let us begin to pile it on, rather:
the first, just mustard. Next, some chili: dot
on top sour cream. And relish tangy
yet spicy sauces! Bring it on until
the wieners bathe in graves of umami,
and delicately stroke on the refill
of sauerkraut and pickled affection.
Prepare yourself, imbued deceit lurks in
the promised treat within the toasted bun.
It’s baseball, it is summer, it hides when
we need it most. It’s just a feeling, pray,
but it is all I want to feel today.

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Free form - On Moving On, On Remembering

This is more or less a drafty draft--I'll be doing a slew of editing this month and this one will be included in that batch!

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On Moving On, On Remembering

The house, gutted, stands in its quiet ruin
pushing itself to write letters to its past lovers.

Time to move on, the house says to itself
maybe now I can move past this

but when it bothers to fail,
it becomes unstable in every way.

Each day the bulldozer comes in,
carries a piece to bed, and leaves.

The home is gone, a shallow foundation
remains, unbothered.

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Prose poem - Olive Buffet

Here's a very short prose poem for you today.

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Olive Buffet


He hates them but is unwilling to be brought down in such an easy manner, so he buys them all and picnics by the lovely water with the lovely tree and eats the disgusting olives one by one.

Monday, April 2, 2012

Sonnet - How to Prepare a Pie Crust


How to Prepare a Pie Crust

There comes a time in any woman’s life:
the moment for pie is born. Take cherry
for lipstick, pucker tight, the perfect wife.
Time to sully bereft hands. Plunge cheery
into powder, wring the quivering dough.
Place dirty hands to face, pause with each squeeze,
knead and need, sculpt to cover holes. Although
the sticky gum is used to hold, unease
sickens the throat; will it flake? Will it burst?
Crimp edges with tortured precision, lick
cinnamon stick fingers. Keep self immersed
in blocks of pastry cities, in the thick
nest of lattice work. The opus, the now,
the bent-over-knee-spasm of spousal clout.

Justine Bienkowski