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let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Misplaced Lens Cap
Acquired Stardust
DEAR READER
One Nice Bug Per Day
dirt enthusiast
YOU ARE THE REASON
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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@thinkerpoet

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He’s Sweet
like port wine. He's intoxicating syrup; no Moscato d’Asti, no levity and well versed in brevity, he's fortified.
With saccharine teeth, he peppers love(less)bites that tighten the jaw. Misplaced memories of sour candies' citric acid won't loosen tendons and thin muscle. Loose you won't and lose you may because he's just so sweet. Relentless in inviting sip after care(ful)(less) sip.
Stuck
Sometimes it's not a bandaid you rip off. Rather it's the sticky stuff that comes on the backs of gift cards. Rolling between fingers, idle and focused stretching the thin sheet, trying to keep it from sticking to itself. You can't unstick without sticking somewhere else, but you'll try anyway. Until it's a ball, adhesive absent or diluted by your own dirt and oils; the ridges and whirls of your fingertips overlaid into general smudge. Useless on the outside while inside, it's done its job too well. Poorly guided by the wielder, you should have just thrown it out, with your curiosity about what you already know to be true. It's never not been this way and the next time around it still won't be a bandaid. Always annoying sticky stuff that you'll play with until it isn't fun anymore. Pulling, rolling, sticking, unsticking, sticking, oiling, dirtying, imprinting, smudging, rolling, throwing out. It always gets thrown out.
Why'd I write this Dr.Seuss-ass poem?
I used to ask people to add to a list of words that rhyme with (word of the month) and one of my favorite ones was "Rhymes With Smile." So I figured I'd post it since it was fun to write especially since I didn't have much control over the words I had to use. You're more than welcome to use it as a prompt! It would be cool to see what other people do with it.
Rhymes with Smile
Lyle his name is Lyle.
Who is he? Well he's the senile crocodile who thinks he lives in the Nile. Meanwhile, lounging on the rocky beaches in Maine a mile away in denial about not swimming in the Nile. Oh Lyle.
As part of your trial, you must retrieve the vial of bile from round Lyles carnivore neck. The bile in the vial is vile but among many things, it carries from whence we get our style.
The DNA is not a double helix, no
its Argyle.
Now, Lyle is hostile and very mobile. Beguile him. File down his claws as he recounts tales of when he was a juvenile.
Ask him questions.
No one asks lonely Lyle questions.
Never look at the vial.
Used tactile skills to trace along his neck as you agree "Yes the Nile is quite frigid today"
Be agile. Snag the bile.
Call me,
hang up,
then redial.
Say one word. "Nucleophile."
You will be retrieved in minutes.
You may be wondering what happened to Lyle.
Well without the curse-
Oh yes the bile is cursed, don't wear the vial.
-Lyle has returned to the Nile, his only reason to smile.
And you have your first addition to your pile of great deeds young hero, let us begin.

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Post Grad (Dust)
I don’t think I want to feel better I literally called myself human garbage For days It was funny at first How ridiculous. I’m not garbage
But aren’t I? I started thinking Until I could smell myself My shortcomings making my friends gag My lack of ambition troubling My aversion to setting goals just sad
I found comfort in feeling like shit Pummeling myself at every chance I got Setting shit reminders Don’t forget you finally applied yourself and failed Oops you almost looked over the fact that you had six months to show them you’re worth the investment and not a dime dropped in your wrung hands
Cuz you look like you forgot
I want to write yes with no formal training and waning attention span yet I think the only thing in this universe that could make
dust of me
Erase me
Is learning that I’m not good enough at that either
I get nauseous and I feel that warmth that words provide me with getting tugged at as my finger tips burn, nails bend backwards, joints ache, and palms spasm.
Don’t yank this blanket off of me - it is me Nothing truly beneath it I not my body I Can’t exist without it. Just won’t. Dust, I said. Scattered dust can’t resettle in the same way.
It’s fucking gone I don’t want to go
Brown Butter and Sage
Gurgling,
sighing away water content
leaf edges curling out of melted butter and crisping.
I’d torn them up
for the strength I suppose;
as strong as fresh sage is wont to be when it’s praised for subtlety.
In a restaurant, these browning milk solids may have coated ravioli
or encrusted the ridges of gnocchi
but here, fresh linguine was $2.76.
My nonstick pans have oxidized bottoms,
build up from spilt oil, and
wonky handles that make pouring sauces fire hazards.
Trying to peak through the pale yellow foam,
I swirl the small sturdy pot - the one I trust the most.
I want to say that I saw my future
like people do with tea leaves
or that I could hear future apprentice me yelling “Yes Chef!” amid metal clatter
or that this moment changed me forever.
It did not.
Tonight I had dinner
and was full.
Writing On My Arm
I lost the Molskine I stole Skin stained by ink, carries doodles and poems’ seeds.
Dried out and forgotten by way of a morning shower My washcloth exfoliates the memory away with green tea suds.
The crease-lettes along the inside of my forearm embrace the potential but leach loftiness as my tendons wriggle and fingers click tap to the tune of financial security.
A peculiar cadence One that twangs with doubt in my office competence Hesitation between notes so I 1 tri-p-le it 3 4 to get through some measures.
It’s unclear if I’m stuttering, improvising, or not heeding the conductor.
Baton purposefully swinging, maybe seconds away from being tossed at my head.
Maybe I’m in time and should keep my head down and stay focused. Maybe it’s good? Perhaps foreshadowing greatness.
Or not at all what I should be doing.
Meticulous
You ended this with meticulous abandon;
nothing reckless about how you were sure
to tag every memory.
Spray paint reluctant to dry,
smudges onto
everything I take in so that even
the way his fingers settle
on my waist
remind me of you.
Graduation
Black cherry wood shavings float down to my feet.
Peeled by my carving knife,
the coils and curls are still fragrant and damp.
It’s easier to carve wet wood.
I pour out the water it soaked in.
Scentless.
Curling my wrist,
I cut out another chunk and
hold it under my nose.
It smells sweet like hibiscus tea.
Go with the grain.
My knife slides as if through butter;
the kind they sell at the farmer’s market
the kind I can’t afford yet.
I straighten the edges
and line it up against the gap that’s smaller than I thought it was.
Going for a snug fit,
I continue to whittle off bits.
If misshapen, my peg, unsecured,
will slip out of
the assemblage of others that have been
jammed in together.
Senseless.
Stacked within the frame
each piece supports another.
Essential.
Palm tight, I’ve
carved for too long
to make sense of this.
I carve because I crave the stability
in squeaking my peg into place;
Immovable.
Safe.
Every pull brings me closer to
muted salt tones smothered over crisp toast
and blushing red tea,
steam fogging up my glasses
as I reminisce about the time I,
ignorant and eager, shaved
down my cherry wood self
to be
somewhere else.

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2016 Poetry Blog Train
Every once in a while it’s good to start a new blog train because a lot of accounts tend to go inactive or deactivate and we gotta stay up to date! If you’re a poetry blog or a blog that reblogs/posts a lot of poetry, like & reblog this post so that others can find you and the work that you share!
Frostbitten
Chomp for hours on
periwinkle gum. Flirt with
subtle mint flavor.
Flip it with your tongue and snap
bubbles between top row teeth.
Collapse hollow square
stems between curious fin-
gers. Keep picking at
vegetation, sharing his
big stupid picnic blanket.
You’re not special, he’s
nice to everyone. A fence
mantra to bring in
daydreams from pasture; huddled
behind brittle broken locks.
Have another piece.
Hot breath hisses through stretched out
mint not cool enough.
His truth won’t be true enough
Semantic sticks. Words can hit.
Hit hard enough to
knock the gum out. In dreams, jars
hold your teeth. He holds
her hand- small and feminine.
You? You hold your burning tongue.
Hands Worn
The clockmaker tinkered.
Genderless and etching angular grooves for fitting gears,
it set the rhythm.
Our relationship is strange,
strained, perhaps even estranged.
Because seconds are no more real than legend triangles are mountains
They are guides.
Arbitrary at the root.
Harvests denote saving daylight that we can't store for dark
winters. We group year quartets so that one may leap
leaving February a day short still.
At least triangles lead us to something we can climb.
Seconds,
minutes,
hours,
are our attempt to make sense of
something we are at the mercy of.
Unable to exist outside of.
Perhaps perception
but never pace
can we will to change.
Without exception,
moments become memories
in the width of a tick.
Leaving Oasis
Sunlight like stinging nettles on the back of her neck.
Sweat, unfamiliar, gathers at the nape.
She dabs it with her finger.
Index and thumb rub in the wet
attempting to return what is already lost,
evaporated into the still, dry air.
Asphalt heat licks the soles of her old sneakers.
Less than a mile, it’s a 30 minute walk home.
.
Apologies never come easy to her.
Clad in dove white, they wait for deployment
but when her lips part,
marching orders seldom come.
He could have given her a ride.
Awkward and air conditioned.
A fraction of a second’s hesitation was followed by a stuttered negation.
“You still love him?”
.
Another droplet rolls between her shoulder blades.
She wipes her brow, wishing he hadn’t asked.

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