Meta Carpals and BreakfastMeta Carpals and Breakfast8 years ago in In The End Poetry Comp More Like This
Early sun deafens
as crusty eyelids flutter
to the smell of toasted bagels.
Cold tiles underfoot mingle with muffled birdsong
illuminating the noise.
I amble to the eternal hum of
the browning toaster
and the grandpa tone
of my fridge. Bone bowl and silver spoon
on the marble counter;
a snatch of tilted cereal box
spills oat grain across patterned stone,
mimicking my scattered senses.
My hand flails but flakes slip
between joints; failure drips,
double decker red,
from my tongue.
In these granite crevices lie
my waning fictions; crumbled
nutrition and fruitless future of
the one that crossed
my knuckles like a ring seeking
the perfect finger.
An Adult's Letter to SantaAn Adult's Letter to Santa9 years ago in Prose More Like This
Every year, after suffering through horribly tacky presents, like a single, hideous sock, a box of Kleenex, a piece of wood, a bag of two-year old candy from the dollar-store, an out-of-date phonebook, a dead fish, and some toilet paper - not to mention the same damn fruitcake that I've gotten for the past six years, this year, I've decided to ask you for something that's not in your toy sack and won't fit down the chimney.
This year, I'm asking for a perfect man. The perfect man has beautiful blue eyes, good hygiene, ripped abs, a genius IQ, a nice car, a tan, and a Harvard education. He is filthy rich, very artistic, a CEO of a major corporation, is no more than five years older than I am, and is drop-dead-gorgeous. He cooks like a professional chef, washes the dishes, vacuums, loves to travel, will give me massages whenever I want, and will do anything in his power to please me.
Oh, wait - that man does not exist...nevermind then, just give me some chocolate.
P.S. If I e