A Poet's First Glass

I'm not the poetic person who can sit in a coffee house corner and leave creativity to caffeine. Instead, I open up to opportunity and observe. I lend my language to the alliteration laureate that sits somewhere on the lookout for lost souls. Countless times, Trial and I have met with her and moseyed through the meadow of meaningless measurability. Who am I? Are these my dreams in the dregs of my drink? Sip from the flask of French Vanilla fortune, for it is entangled in answers.

The Way You Wear Your Socks

You wear tube socks in the summer.
You wear them in the winter.
Before your white laces meet your shoes,
I see them peep under your hem line.
Sometimes, the stripes don't match.

You wear tube socks in the sun
which leaves you with a really retro tan.
It's sporty,
but you disappear in gym.

You're the boy who wears tube socks.
You sit two seats up and one row over every fifth period.
You are never in gym.
You're color blind.
I think your cute.

Food is Good

Taste is a little obese man
who grasps the restraints
ready to take total control
of your tongue.

Tonight he tarries overtime
Sweating out sweet and sour
in increasing increments as he
pushes buttons and pulls levers
in a tiny control room.

Each morsel of food is carefully careened
around your mouth
then swallowed
leaving behind a lingering aftertaste
pronounced: [dĭ-zīr'].

I Peel My Citrus Neurotically

I don't know how I managed to make friends in first grade.
I'm convinced it had something to do
with a teachers scientifically assigned seating chart
rather than a sudden interest in social skills.
Most kids made friends at snack time,
but who wants to trade doubled stuffed anything
in exchange for apple sauce?
Friendships were based on a mother's grocery list
and a child's knack at bargaining.
My friendships were all accidents.

Mea Cupla

I've plagarized my way trough poetry
and imitated your intentions in prose

Repeatedly the sky was blue

I've snatched each "the" and "ampersand"
to fill in the gaps between:
Would the defendent come foward
to speak on behalf of the prosecution?
&
my confession.

These sounds are not mine.
I'd rahter be
wahofamgiging imant livobirx
than foolishly writing
in a language I didn't pen
with the thoughts that were never for me
to play in.

7,000,000 Hits this Week

I cannot fit a tree
into my CD drive.
There is no way
that I can
transfer the smell of bark
up onto this digital page.
Through this touch screen
my feet don't feel terrain
batteries act like a drain
straight from my heart.
I'm in love with the Earth
because you can't just download her.

Restless Poem

Like a three year old,
A poem will dodge nap-time.
I've seen one nestle itself between
Toppling blocks
and the couch
Were it thinks
I couldn't see its tail.

Poems create bags beneath my eyes
I stay awake
Staring down a work's glow green irises
from the slit under the dark door.
They rank up near the Bogey Man.

Chamomile tea won't tease the tension
out from tender moments.
When you thought a word or two would suffice,
think twice, or maybe even a million times
before the pen will print fluidity.

When poems find themselves finicky
I draw a warm bubble bath
Letting them soak a while
with crowns of bubbles on their heads.
Later, when I take them out
I realize
Poems are like children
Take them out.
Scrub them down
and love them.
They'll be okay.