Cock-a-doodle doo.
I smell you.
Oven baked; pan fried.
Shake n' bake; even brined.
Any type will do.
Chicken, I love you.
Damp linens flung aside
sodden cushions
Flank by flank
She was damp
Nickel sack and bark rings
Verdant gaze meet hazel orbs
Ripe late April Northern Flatlands moisture
Slaughterhouse savory mist perfume
Slender dull rose covering on the pane
Cooling unit recirculating
Coral beams groom her visage
Midday vernal noon
the drizzle ceased the light slivered in
Naked gourd blossoms adhesive juice
Lurching brined
The toddler flesh on her abdomen
She didn’t cleanse
Just exited my one-room lodging
Infatuation perspiration,
Empty uterus,
Pixie sperm dribbling,
Contraceptive device
Marriage band fabricator.
20 thin sliced eggplant or zucchini
brined and water and dried
30 slices of white tomato
30 slices of a good stiff red tomatto
4 tablespoons of crushed garlic
1 &1/2 cup of diced onion
2 lbs of sliced peperoni
4 cups of ground beef cooked
1 tub of ricotti
2 cups of cottage cheese
5 eggs
salt
pepper
cayeene
mushrooms
spinach
roasted red bell pepper in oil
Streetlight dander. Jawbone asphalt.
Blink razors carve her iris script.
Rib stars ovulate in feral grates,
mechanical tongue juts a bloodline breath.
Keystroke ruin writes in collapse,
a waveform lodged in sternum glass.
Lipsticked rodeo—a gash in faded denim
Banana-knuckled hands torch filterless ghosts.
Tree-call through copper root systems.
Wire-pluck storm,
vapor chews the stock market
Cancer caught in molar hush,
brined in citrine static.
She opens her throat like a coin purse.
Spine bows in semaphore.
We dismount the edge—
An incisor cusp,
the confession still blistering
beneath the flesh of no language.
Because this glass jar I call life,
overfills with the unforeseen,
the lid
almost bursting, G-d’s hand
never giving
in to the chaos, always
holding down
the lid.
Because of the glimmer
of sunlight
that filters through my eyelids,
this jar lid,
is
mine
and I vow
that I may savor
the moments of sweet
jam and brined
pickles
equally,
by G-d’s Good Graces.
Brined voids surround my already bounded vision, throwing me headlong into confusion and disarray.
Hesitation in what may be the next correct course is what has landed me, and with much despair, in this current crisis of identity.
It is also what keeps me still.
This sea of doubt, once touched by the poet Alighieri, drowns my senses, casts my sails of logic askew and all at once sends my fluttering mind into a turmoil so grand as to take the attentive and oblivious alike.
Oft in mesmeric trance, the soaked foundation upon which I stumble offers none but fleeting moments of blessed relief. The rotten cored planks creak and shudder with the shifts and contemplations of my psyche, and I feel as though one misstep or overreach will drop me into a depth not easily realized.
And, I fear.
Oh do I fear.
I fear that will be the end. The end of a great many precious jewels which have hitherto been forgotten, discarded, and altogether scorned.
I fear that I will not be mourned, or that I will but be it with half of heart.
I am surrounded by unknown terrain.
No bash so far, beats the one in the jar
Emcee DJ Green spins for the jarstar
No ill will to spill, just dancing on dill
When the lid comes off it’s an open bar!
So relish your time and come get your fill
No asparagus juice here, that’s just swill
That’s the best party perk of a gherkin
Gettin’ sliced on garlic, Oh what a thrill!
The sweet ones are in the corner lurkin’
While that gherkins workin’ it and twerkin’
I’m already so brined out of my mind
And the bread and butter kind is smirkin’
I’m so pickled my vision has declined
To kaleidoscopically half blind
Stumble and bump into pals in numbers
A hullaballoo of the tangy kind
Off to our shelf in the door we lumber
To catch some refrigerated slumber
May have had too many vinegar shots
Since yesterday…. I was a cucumber
August 15, 2022
It’s a pickle party contest
Sponsored by Mystic Rose Rose
Blackberry bushes barricade the background
of your immature stature.
Braided chestnut hair rests gently
on weakly shoulders
as your hazel eyes beam a child's rippling wonder.
Bee-glazed berry juice permeates your smiling cheeks.
The taste streams alive as I gaze upon you
with your burgundy splashed denim jumper,
which belongs in an art museum,
but remains in my heart.
Your quarter full pail fills with sunshine brined time.
In search of the best, you request my help
to reach the hierarchy of treats,
those that brush the sun's ripening wonder first.
A perfumery of sweet harvest freshness
tickles my nasal cavity with nostalgia.
Your imprinting hand hugs mine as
my prime pickings are exchanged for smiles.
I can almost hear your laughter,
scattering impulsively throughout my longing.
In this photograph, for only a moment,
I can almost bring you back.
2/25/2020
She bragged about
Enjoying the embarrassment
Of being rich
She spoke of
Opportunities
That were available
To her thru those
Trends that complimented
What she already knew
And wasn't nervous
About doing
Her strengths were
The Reas n she bragged.
Her weaknesses came from
Those fears she kept hidden
Treasures the shame of
Wealth
Those who long for my
Attention are unattractive
And poor
There needs my ability to
Exploit?
Or might I provide service
To help those who need it.
Violino di Capra
The shoulders or
Hindleggs of
The goat shall
Be brined in
Wine, salts, sugars, honey
Cayenne, garlic, onion
Celery's and peppers
Rosemary, thyme, bay leaves
And the rest of citruses
Perched to cure
The Gods and Goddess
Of gossip minds you.
She bragged about
Enjoying the embarrassment
Of being rich
She spoke of
Opportunities
That were available
To her thru those
Trends that complimented
What she already knew
And wasn't nervous
About doing
Her strengths were
The Reas n she bragged.
Her weaknesses came from
Those fears she kept hidden
Treasures the shame of
Wealth
Those who long for my
Attention are unattractive
And poor
There needs my ability to
Exploit?
Or might I provide service
To help those who need it.
Violino di Capra
The shoulders or
Hindleggs of
The hogs shall
Be brined in
Wine, salts, sugars, honey
Cayenne, garlic, onion
Celery's and peppers
Rosemary, thyme, bay leaves
And the rest of citruses
Perched to cure
The Gods and Goddess
Of gossip minds you.
She bragged about
Enjoying the embarrassment
Of being rich
She spoke of
Opportunities
That were available
To her thru those
Trends that complimented
What she already knew
And wasn't nervous
About doing
Her strengths were
The Reas n she bragged.
Her weaknesses came from
Those fears she kept hidden
Treasures the shame of
Wealth
Those who long for my
Attention are unattractive
And poor
There needs my ability to
Exploit?
Or might I provide service
To help those who need it.
Violino di Capra
The shoulders or
Hindleggs of
The goat shall
Be brined in
Wine, salts, sugars, honey
Cayenne, garlic, onion
Celery's and peppers
Rosemary, thyme, bay leaves
And the rest of citruses
Perched to cure
The Gods and Goddess
Of gossip minds you.
She bragged about
Enjoying the embarrassment
Of being rich
She spoke of
Opportunities
That were available
To her thru those
Trends that complimented
What she already knew
And wasn't nervous
About doing
Her strengths were
The Reas n she bragged.
Her weaknesses came from
Those fears she kept hidden
Treasures the shame of
Wealth
Those who long for my
Attention are unattractive
And poor
There needs my ability to
Exploit?
Or might I provide service
To help those who need it.
Violino di Capra
The shoulders or
Hindleggs of
The goat shall
Be brined in
Wine, salts, sugars, honey
Cayenne, garlic, onion
Celery's and peppers
Rosemary, thyme, bay leaves
And the rest of citruses
Perched to cure
The Gods and Goddess
Of gossip minds you.
Words brined turn sad
Or else so mad
Words sad turn bad
But seldom glad
Words washed with sweat
Can lose a bet
Words plugged unkind
Now feel so blind
Words in mind map
Can crash and trap
Words in full squeeze
Can swallow breeze
Words of a sort
Can stagnate plot
Words in full score
Can fashion more
Words forged empty
Tell less bubbly
Leon Enriquez
14 February 2019
Singapore
Sad sad story here
As melancholy spears...
Feel bereft of hope
As weary body scopes...
Why thus you may ask?
Broken dreary old tasks...
Sad sad story lines
How aged this old soul brined!
Feel the curl of time
Sending shivers and chimes...
Face the dreary deep
Cold as frozen sleep...
Old age is a drag
Awkward steps like torn rags...
Sad glimpses loiter
Fester as thoughts wander...
Sad sad story blunt
Old lips now learn to grunt...
Feeble body pains
Unfinished zest greets gain
Leon Enriquez
08 February 2019
Singapore
HE KNEADED MORE
SHE WAS THOUGHTFUL: THINKING
AND DELIVERING WHAT SHE SAID
WAS THE CHIVOLOGY OF MINCE
WORDS TO DECRIBE THE
SWEETNESS
THE INTISIPATION OF
BEING PLEASED
SUM WON, WHO LARD ME
SUM WON, WHO KNEAD ME
SUM WON : WHO CARES,
SHARE YOUR SWEETNES,
IN THE THOUGHTFULNESS OF LOVE.
THE CONSIDERATION OF BEING LOVED,
APPRECATED AND CARED FOR.
SHE SAID SHE HALF SUM-WON,
SUM-WON WHO
LARDS SWEETNESS.
SUM-WON WHO OMLEETES ME
BE MYSELF.
SUM-WON THAT SWEETEN'S MY HONEY!
I DOUGH FEEL NO WHEY
UNLOVED, MY LARD I AM LOVE.
THE SWEETNESS OF THE NECTAR, WHICH
KNEAD ME.
DOUGH YOU FEEL SORRY FOR ME!
MY BREADS ARE THE DOUGHS OF
TOMMORROW!
AH SOUPPA-STAR MONGEST THESE
RIPENED PEARS.
AKE, MAN!
THE BUTTON MUSHROOMS:
THESE FUNGUS' ARE FIRM
AND RIPE! I HAM ONION
FOR THE MEAT, BRINED FOR IT'S
DELISICOUSNESS!
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