Favorite time of the year

Photo from The Telegraph

I remember those sweet January afternoons.

The feel of warmth against my neck and chill in my toes as I trudged through the feets of snow, sun blazing up above.

I remember them like they were yesterday,

The grey snake in the pathway,
Dried Ramen picnics,

The crunch, crunch, crunch of noodles and powdered broth.

I remember our first barbie snap-on sports bra,

Digging deep to find it like treasure,

Then rushing to our mom to show her what we found.

In those January afternoons, so filled with every fantasy game, film and novel.

Stirring those dusty sunray particles,

Filling me with that fragment of nostalgia,
Then closing my eyes and dreaming it all over again.

Those beautiful, dusty sun-ray particles of nostalgia remind me of how simple life used to be.

I got married in January, to taste that simplicity.

I saw my first dead deer in those parts.

Raised our first puppy in a Ramen box.

Played tag

Ran and ran and ran through the old apple trees.

With my four other simblings

Oh, how lucky we used to be.

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The Smells in Our Lives

Friends left and smells gone,
I cringe at the bittersweet scents of the past.

Downy as down in chemicals is sickening
As stomach flips from previous kisses

Cat and spice, like a bad foreign romance, fills me with ache and pain, and an urge to spit upon the pages and scream out in anger, “I have ascended!”

Sweat and perfume, like the two brewed on a dusty old shelf, brought back feelings of freedom, carefree-ness and an urge to give all away,

Now, sink me low, like swallowed rocks, dragging my feet as the tears fall.

Will the pain never end? Is our only solution to fill these voids with “replacements”, never truly respecting those who step into the gap.

Smelling is as heartwretching as puking, vomiting, expelling all the bad and the good, never able to choose between.

Oh, what I would give for a smell eraser machine.

Apology before Repose

Hate to be a little emo.

I’m normally a shining star

During these holiday seasons.

Building and crafting

Like Ol’ saint nick with a

Hardy har har har.

Though, I’ve worked myself

To death, you see?

My body is weak,

My mind is somewhere off sea.

A sickness overcame my senses,

And blew me out of proportion.

I’ve got no new ideas

For this year’s generation.

I hope my apologies have

Not been too late.

Perhaps I’ll serve a cup of tea

And take myself off the stake.

Two deadlines I have missed,

And two stories you are owed.

I’ll stop procrastinating,

And throw in a third untold.

So take a seat,

Prop up your feet,

And prepare to feel defeat.

Ringing Rain

                              Pub-
                           lisher,
                        publisher,
                      go away.
                    And dont call
                 again, another day.
                Im working at the
              bakery today,
             Hard at work, slaving away,
          Making the money you cant
        afford to pay.

      Publisher, publisher, please go away,
    I wont fall for another money scheme.
   I have mountains of copies and piles of
  misprints,
 I wont pay you to not market for me.
The moneys dried up, you see.
I have a wedding to plan and bills to pay,
I dont have time for you to bother me all day.

Publisher, Publisher, please go away.
 Please stop calling, please leave me be.
 I have no story, its unfinished and boring,
  And it wont be yours when the pages are clean.

       So please, publisher, publisher, go 
            away, and don't call again, 
                    any day.

Thoughts for Food

When did crude become eloquent,
Crass become unique
And vulgarity become beauty?
What is a name?
When borders blur like smudges on chalk boards,
He is her,
She is him,
We are you,
And you are not blameless,
When judged by more than that which we define ourselves as.

But,
Whats in a name?
When defined, we defy
What lies next to our thesauruses?
It’s changed so frequently,
Typos in societies context,
Sue becomes Mary,
Mary becomes Glenda,
And Glenda becomes famous.

When the name has been used up
And tossed away,
Does it remain true to oneself.
If you are your own definition
No matter what they say you are,
Are you still defined?
Or merely rolling down the pages
Until Glenda arrives?

Then, who are you to define yourself?
Others are greater than the mere you.
When does majority not rule?

A food’s thought ends at a luncheon ajourned.
Am I still me?
And will your proclamations ever prove otherwise?

​Seattle, Seattle. Seattle. … Seattle.

Seattle is weird.

Seattle is loud.

Seattle is peaceful.

Windy and wavy

Seattle is tiny. Cramped and crowded. Tight, narrow and enormous.

Its many colors and single season.

Seattle is vastly indifferent,

Strangly tolerant,

And abudantly judgemental.

Its vasts seas and lack of sand.

Layers upon layers upon layers.

As hypnotic as a serpent, it sheds its skin each year.

Does it know of the forest beyond?

The great east?

The vast evergreen that surrounds it?

Nay, I do not think it knows of the world outside its world.

Perhaps those that come and go.

Or those who choose to stay forever.

But, no. Not Seattle.

Never Seattle.

Seattle is Seattle, and it is what makes Seattle Seattle.

Why do I write about Seattle, you ask?

I do not live here, you see.
And it is weird to me.