the fire's out.
the hearth is stone cold.
even the wick was spent.
the ominous echo booming off
the walls was enough
to rattle the door with an unoiled hinge
winds whip like a raging winter storm
trees snap like toothpicks.
ice build up on knees
it's the gnashing of teeth
sawing through bone on flint.
a pathetic attempt to spark.
no bargaining.
no salvation.
nothing but the grind
when there's no more jaw to chew
crowns tumble onto the floor
only to reveal seeds.
biting into the fruit,
kicked out by the stone.
rolling back alone
all of the lies that you told?
it's time to pay the foul
a debt.
a regret. .
it's the gnashing of teeth
d i s c o n n e c t i n g.
decaying friendship.
the loneliness
scraps of jagged salt meals
you'll never eat
did I leave that stove on?
no, don't think about that
it's just grinding
with no oil.
gums begin to tear
as you realize
that you've been biting
your tongue
the whole time....
damn!
Broccoli crowns and carrot sticks
removed by dental floss and toothpicks
Popcorn, peanuts and caramel corn
leave my teeth like newborns'
It suddenly occurred to me,
in a moment
of rare clarity,
that there are women
who buy cuckoo-clock
puzzles,
and then,
there are women
who assemble them.
I am proudly,
the second type,
even if that makes me
belong inside
the clock.
I feel terrible
for whomever
assembles these
inglorious bastards,
aka lasered wooden
pieces (from H-E-
double toothpicks).
That spells Hell
for the slower
readers following along
at home.
I have already
scrounged around,
twice,
on my hands and knees
looking for pieces
that popped off.
Meanwhile,
I ask myself:
“how did I get here?
Is this life?”
If so, I am happy
and the clock
makes sense,
even if life doesn’t
cuckoo,
or announce the hour
on time.
A Lightening strike
hit a tree in the back yard
resembles toothpicks.
Inhaler
Dimes
Brown napkin
Three pairs of eye glasses
Two pencils, an eraser and a pen
Wallet with seventeen dollars and eighty-two cents
Comb, cracker, stale muffin, five receipts, toothpicks
Tiny piece of pink ribbon, twenty-two allergy pills
Empty pill bottle
Sometimes finding a forgotten purse feels like Christmas
Picking and raking,
Cleaning the political
Garden of Evil,
Know that while gardeners die,
Rooting out trash must go on:-
My mother’s curls were teeny tiny, ringlets of gray
Tightly wound, as if they had been set around toothpicks
My sister and I had golden curls until we were two.
They gave us a haircut, and that was the end of them.
Our brother had curls, but they embarrassed our father.
He did not think he looked like a real boy with them.
I think he was relieved when Richard’s toddler head was shaved.
Our father never had a curl; his hair was thick and stiff.
Five people living in the same house.
Only one kept her curls.
Toothpicks
My toothpicks are
scholars of
Afro-Asian eating habits.
there were scattered toothpicks next to morning brew
where was my brother, garlic-eating gorgeous Drew?
I stood in his flat, and heard something loud on the roof
the back doorknob slowly turned, it was a scary scene
what was happening? An ominous feeling felt mean.
water began running from the sink, hitting a ceramic lamb
was I on a surprise camera? I searched around for a cam.
There was no sign of one; my teeth began to quake.
I left there without a hug, a smile or a pathetic handshake.
The couple wanted to eat at an exclusive restaurant.
Wife said, “Let’s act like we are haughty and stuck up.”
Husband was all in; so they ate with pinkie fingers up.
They were ultra-rude to the waiter; noses in the air.
They sent their food back twice; a chef came out.
He ordered them to leave; the entire place clapped.
Even the PTA president and her husband.
There would be HE double toothpicks to pay later.
Have I ever wasted words on lower-cases and capitals?
Laying beneath cool ground spring, waiting in its vestibules
Happiness can be found loving this Earth for its residuals
Toothpicks of this stand; reaching for heaven in tones, sepia
'Til they're filled with what's beneath me; green colors plethora
Flowers soon will be dancing on this bed; just as they have before
One cool soft rain from nature's mother; this landscape will live once more
Against sky-blue tapestry; worthy of a majuscule
A moment infrangible; in my record, no-way minuscule
Some people don’t hike through the wood,
especially on All Hallows Eve.
Ghosts of boys and girls of good
float at the campfire, if you believe.
Elves and pixies dance through the trees,
with taunting, mocking, and leering.
They swing and sway in the brash breeze,
their faces frighteningly jeering.
What was that? The crack in the wind
unleashes demons and banshees!
Their hideous yowling will send
even the bravest to their knees.
Ghosts and goblins arise from their graves,
harmonize in a cacophonous chant.
Don’t try to hide in the darkened caves.
They’ll find you in their raucous rant.
They’ll steal your bones with giggling glee
and make toothpicks with your ribs.
Quickly now, turn. Run, and flee
before they find you and call out “Dibs!”
Running around frantically,
The wrong lock for a key,
Boiling over, fuming,
Cleanness always looming.
Lurking over, smiling ear to ear,
Small, always wanting to steer,
“Too controlling!”, spoilt I’d say,
Always wanting their way.
It’s like their hearts are astray,
In one spot, you can’t stay,
Oh, how I’d love to keep them quiet,
Pitter, patter, follow it.
Fighting, battling in a “war”,
Toothpicks drawn over an apple core,
How silly we were as children, making food sculptures,
Fighting over scraps like vultures.
Contagious, maturity spreading fast,
Cough, breath, that’s my last,
Punch to the face, youth ending soon,
Lies spread by a goon.
All who lie - need,
creative people lie all the time,
either to themselves or others.
They may claim, that this is 'My Truth'!
They may say,
that this is my very soul,
I have made it for you
out of papier mâché and toothpicks,
it represents my pain or joy
or whatever.
Don't be fooled,
they have constructed a truth
that is not a bit like them,
what they paint, write or sculpt
is a need
and all who lie need to Need.
Unhinge your jaw, snake, what’s a little more?
You’re eating worlds faster than they make them
And nothing fills you better than a tale of love and war.
You’re ravenous, really, making feasts out of beasts.
You’re every monster’s monster and your hunger never dies
As your shadow stretches over bones you’ve bleached.
Jormungand’s ribs poke like toothpicks in your teeth,
Tying twine ‘round your molars ‘til gaps and the string
Melt to baleen and bone, fangs unused and unseen.
You sift through the dead and your previous meals
Searching for something to take off the edge
Of the wound in your skull that never quite heals.
Come on, snake, devour, it’s all you can do—
You cannibalize the length of your life
When you’ve run out of ways to avoid the truth.
You see thousands of times but won’t open your eyes
‘Cause real life constricts but in mirrors you’re free,
And your hunger hurts no one when you’re eating lies.
Third-person you swallow your tail without help.
The snake, ouroboros, that endless decay;
You’ve consumed every lie and are left with yourself
And you realize too late you ate your whole life away.
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