I was really tired when I wrote these!
I want an egg sandwich.
These things make themselves
If you’ve lost enough sleep
You can watch them
Life is easier when your breakfast is sentient
As long as its attitude toward being eaten
A positive attitude
Can really make or break
A good breakfast.
Don’t break my breakfast
By giving it existential dread
Don’t let it start enjoying the real world
Or fearing death
I must eat it
And I hate having to catch my own breakfast.
Swifter than a deer
So does the yolk in my egg sandwich run.
A second attempt:
I must catch my own breakfast
The eggs are runny
The bacon is cooking fast
And these quickbreads won’t get away from me anytime soon.
But they’re going to have to get up earlier than that in the morning!
At 5:30 Sunday morning, I awoke to the sound of Satan himself breaking into the bedroom. Kato kitty had seen another cat outside the window, which lent him evil feelings, put a crack in his pure soul, and allowed the devil to possess him.
I’m not sure what exactly I heard but I actually woke up screaming. I’m not an easy girl to scare but oh my god he got me good, and whatever I felt, Don felt it times three. Needless to say, he wasn’t allowed to haunt the bedroom anymore; he was liable to eat any one of us in this state. I got him in the kitty equivalent of a full Nelson put him in the garage until the possession had passed.
What is it about a kitchen.
Warm and cozy
The smell of butter and onions
Or homemade bread
Or chocolate chip cookies
Puts its arm around your shoulders
And plants a warm kiss on your cheek.
The kitchen chairs are rarely the most comfortable
But it doesn’t matter
Everyone is too happy to care.
Talking, tasting, drinking, joking
Home is where the hostess is.
AKA onion blossoms. They’re always at state fairs and greasy steakhouses. Do people outside the States eat these? It’s one of those things that’s just so bad for you, but worth it. Like everything at the state fair, all of which is deep-fried. Cowdog Creatives and I were joking about writing a poem about onion blossoms, now it’s reality.
greasy witch hands reach upward
pointed fingers of batter
inside are pale, limp worm bones
lost vegetable, battered and fried into crustacean
oil pooled in pockets
god of saturated fats
I think there’s an onion in here somewhere
pick a piece like a flower
light, empty crisp
loose guts slip out
How are we going to finish this and then
a sodden cold napkin and dark brown leavings
which even we couldn’t face
throw it away, wipe our fingers
and pretend it didn’t happen
but evidence remains
in our fingers, breath, stomach gurgles
You are my comfort.
You wrap me in your warm embrace.
Softly console me when I cry.
You know me inside and out.
The only one I can rely on.
Any time, day or night
You are there
Always willing to spark a little joy
Into my waning mindset.
You are so tender
But sometimes you have a little bite.
Rough around the edges
You are bitter enough to match me
You are sweet enough to sweeten me
I can feel my brain chemistry change in your presence
When you are gone your memory lingers.
Why is it that nothing good can last?
My greatest love
My finest friend
My hopeless addiction
O chocolate brownie