Love sits like a rock, ticks like a clock,
drops like a thermonuclear warhead.
Never ending, resists bending, snaps
back like a palm tree after a beach storm.
Unfazed by summer's heat, talks on a beat,
grand standing through each of our eyes.

Mama says

Find a man
            that makes you happy
Find a man
            that takes care of you
Find a man
            that loves you beyond limits
Find a man
            that will cherish you
Find a man
            that is loyal and trusting


Dear Mama,
I found him

But Mama, what do I comprimise?

ah pasta!

the quality of good writing
is always strained,
unlike mercy,
always salted and drained,
the experience
combinatory of all
your five senses,
together in concert,
lusting for
each rivulet of
spaghetti strands
stands,
indivisible, under god.

calorically sinning individually,
defying forking unification,
each recalling the where,
the what, or the when,
but not
ah,
the how!

matters this know-now,
the how,
this how came calling,
fork+ spoon,
the resurrection
of inspiration,
the genetic sequence of
past mis-steppes

the how of life oft
grows spoiled, fuzzy first,
because a human assembled
it a long ago, the how,
but time took it upon itself,
to deconstruct
so
the tomato sauce bolognese
inspirational stains
exist to remind us
how
to remain perfect forever

poetica est enim propter cibum

poetry is what you eat

de facto fabrication just after the fact
the king mackeral always
dealing the blade to the sword fish
in a hasty attempt at drawing blanks
all confusion no feeling
the cowboys from those western films would have hated you
you could never tell who the good guy was
there's no duality only extreme alienation
and the tenuous fabric that exists between
man and everything else
something is always measured by the difference
it has in relation to another
the charisma from the hero
turned out only to be a severe drinking problem