a poem caused by tea
tea is the necessary
bifocal for me
to make sense
of all dreariness
that’s further
complicated
by the weather
it’s the varnish
that makes
my faded paneling
standup
to the sun glair
it allows
for needed and necessary contemplation
that’s a better option
than behaving like an ambush
predator toward
possible confrontation
tea helps smooth
out my thoughts kinks
and crannies
where debris builds
up it’s corrosion
I hope it clears away
before
my tree full of owls
spots it and they feel
the need
to save
me from their honest
pins and splinters
a poem to a
reluctant teetotaler
my life is weak
tea and throughout the years that’s been true by my choice
and besides that
my bad habits kept dealing me lousy hands
and my they
kicked me in my stoned optimism
and while I was
down they went to work on my head
even caffeine
coils me into a tight squeeze and I feel most of the pain in my head
and afterwards
I’m ready for the solaces of the mattress and intense vomiting
now I understand
fully that I’m a weak tit and I’ve made my peace
with that fact
and I know my life is better off because of it and the tea
tastes much
better to me and because I’m not heading off in the night’s
dull to the
toilet to tear my guts up
the shield of tomatoes: a prose ode
Tomatoes stand
guard over my life with their skins and juices and seeds. Tomatoes are red pods
made by the sun and they’re intoxicating enough to turn heat and humidity and
the blustery chill into type of pleasantness. They humidify the day’s dry
peelings to make them seem more tolerable. Their vines jail the grim reaper and
shrivel his/her plans into dry brittle seeds. Tomatoes keep my blood thin
against the viscosity of stress caused by anger.
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