1. Shopping List
2. The Ballad Of The Frying Pan
3. Cooking With Spinach
4. The Banquet
5. Leftovers
6. Lemonade
7. Sweet Things
8. Untitled Dinner Conversation
9. Painting Your Nightmares Green
10. The Spinach Sings Goodnight
Shopping List
1 large bag of exposition (durable)
6 and a half tablespoons of lemon juice from memory (sour)
2 writing prompt action figurines (blue)
4 to 12 cups of inspiration per day. Daily. (visible)
Add 1 (12 oz) universe of popcorn (kernels), or
If you prefer, cookies can be added to the meal (lunch)
To avoid damage during the cooking (process)
Oh, I thought you said
A recipe for disaster, but
You actually said
A recipe for my hamster?
I don’t even have a hamster
1 half forgotten dream
Garlic, garlic, garlic
Olive oil (pressed) (impressed) (imprisoned)
(in your life) (play by ear) and
Cut this poem into 3-inch circles with a wine glass or a cookie cutter
Then fill half your life with 1 tbsp of hope (It will happen) (or) (good job)
To divide the margin of each triangle as much as possible
Circles are also your friends
They always come back to you
Your love, my love, some printer ink
Writing, drawing, upside down
A piece of writing, lost and found
Nearly always lemon juice
Sugar, salt, and other things
The whole quantity or extent of
Spinach and a spinning wheel’s
Each and every, every single
Straw turned into gold
The world’s largest diamond
Dynamite, and the word for world is kaboom!
Please don’t forget the lemon juice
And some really flammable produce please
If they’re in stock
The Ballad Of The Frying Pan
If sleepless nights could speak in lullabies,
some ghosts might add, that you are
working now. Cleaning instead of cooking
and taking care of yourself. And soon.
The pancakes reach the very sky,
and start to sing. The magic of the kitchen sink.
While hiding in the living room. In boxes.
For she shouts praise and praises in her head
because time walks in and visits all his guests,
to greet them with such humble smiles, and
unremarkable hellos.
Calling out to his brothers, friends, the world,
orally from one generation to the next.
As on his royal clock-shaped face,
there is nothing left to lose but a mask,
glittering on the sun’s side yard. Untouched
by age or silver platter afternoons.
They pass away, but even time can read
somehow, the writings on the kitchen halls.
A recipe for disaster. Dun. Dun. Dun.
Your pillow is a frying pan.
And with more or less than light than time,
the riots start with sleepless nights
and dreamless souls. Plus songs. To keep
our lives away. Into the swimming pools
of boiling oil. Water. Food. Potatoes speaking to
our plates. The color of their talking
flower pots and eggs.
But you sleep in again, for three more hours in
your morning form. Both proud and independent
of the size of your own mind, so large
and in danger, and like makes like as
each gesture is so sad, because
your pillow is a frying pan.
And maybe time will tell on you. Or teach you how to write
form letters, in the bubbles, out of soup and glass, and
fragments of your diary.
We were mostly written
out in fading scribbled lines, each
unidentified again, as yourself.
Because,
dear diary,
I think something is burning in the heart of the kitchen,
but I dare not dream of entering. The end.
Cooking With Spinach
This simple recipe
is the best way to make a salad talk.
On rainy days when you are feeling all alone.
Boil the salad bowl in olive oil (and garlic) for a few minutes.
Check it out loud. So easily audible. Sound check. 1 2 3
1 In a large saucepan add the oil,
garlic cloves, and cook cook cook
until well cooked enough.
Cover pan with spinach.
Cover your eyes and mouth, your soul,
your hopes and dreams, your triangle
of roots and fruits and vegetables.
Cover and cook for a minute or two
(If you are unsure, just ask for the spinach.
It usually has a fancy stopwatch,
sometimes babies).
2 After 2 minutes of cooking,
let the spinach dry completely
In a very matter-of-fact way, and having
the appearance of being both
unconscious and very unintentional.
Then, remove the heat
from the conversation. As everybody talks
about the elephant made of spinach
in the dining room. Still dripping
water, and your bath towel,
melting plastic forks and spoons
into your spinach heart
of artichokes.
3 Remove all excess water from the pot.
If necessary, add a little oil. Salt and flavor.
Make it talk, but mostly.
Eat it as a vegetable, right away.
The Banquet
Straight from wearing the bodies of their arms and shoulders, bulged apricots, grapefruits, and melons on the forest’s hall. Totally plunged through memories. True monsters, and dungeons of fruits and vegetables, but also monsters as they stalk the nectarines, and apricots hanging at their hips, a cruel gut of the three melons and the three moons, the honeydew and the trees. Just three of them there, standing in chest plates of nectarines, of grapes, of mangos, and what one man knew existed beneath the piece-meal armor and exotic swords and axes, and limes. A story told of stone fruit, bananas, and mangoes. Berries, melons, apples, watermelon oranges like him, like giants. Heavy feet crunching down on men and fruit and war below. The strawberries, raspberries, and monsters, towering over trained predators, and beyond. A wingspan spreading around like blueberries, kiwifruit, and here and there a pineapple lime, or lemon on the 13th floor. The muscles deepest in a pit of coconuts, avocados, and peaches. Reach out to them. And it was not only they that saw him, Pear Cherry of the Strawberry Passionfruits. Preaching of melons and watermelon rocks, and a lucky sliced roll of a pair of pairs. Or maybe apples. But anyway. They barely paused as Jackfruit Papaya Kiwi, stabbed at his articles of clothing. Barely consisting of a pair of gloves and three or more pairs of shoes. Well, one of them might actually have been a boot. And Jack might know. Because it wasn’t the only outfit mocked up in the world’s largest weapon factory. This citrus note of oranges, grapefruits. I can tell. And the talk of the town of mandarins and blueberry pancakes. Sounds absurd. But it sounds delicious. Like Pomegranates once said to Starfruit Plum, your man once froze. All up in fear at the Sovereign’s Pool. Two blocks away from the center of the universe. No vacancies. Complete and full of peaches and plums. Of tropical bananas and raspberry mandarins. So you step out through the portal and are instantly so very lost. And alone. So, maybe eat some nectarines? And I’ve heard rumors that they are delicious. Nom nom nom. A murder of nectarines, or is that crows? So juicy.
Leftovers
Something that is not yet a poem, especially food, but maybe you really want to eat, remaining after the rest of time has been used or consumed. Only 9 pumpkins walked up to the midnight bells in a napkin ring. Holding on to barbecue grill sauce and carelessness expanding across the galaxy of skies. And they say that 30 degrees of mentos can get too bloated, can open up or get shut down. Directly on the table to get yelled at. Like yellow squash. In just 24 hour it can turn you into a pumpkin. Maybe pie. Or a light bulb to kill time is your idea of their jar of eyeballs. Looking lost in transit. But mostly, just good looking.
Lemonade
I was going to make some lemonade today,
but since you forgot to buy the lemon juice,
and I would rather juggle lemons
than squeeze them, let alone
pick them from a line made up of trees,
all I have left is this sugar water.
… I’ll sell you some for a nickel?
Sweet Things
Sweet things are made of sugar. And all my life has never been the same. You have that sparkle that some dreams are made of. Even if I don’t say it. You know. That sweet dreams are also made of sugar. And I can’t get enough of you. For you. I’m running out of sugar. Like. Did you know that almost all of our cabinets are bare. And the stores are all out too. Because supply chains, also hoarding. People building bunkers. Out of sugar cubes. To feed them to their horses. What to do? I don’t know, but here’s the moon. And so, I’ll say goodnight. Sweet dreams. But only in moderation. Because I’m running out of sugar.
Untitled Dinner Conversation
Kaboom! The seventy-seven melon southeast stone fruit patio of pomegranates, looks out over a small unsuspecting thermostat of tv cooking batteries. Wow! With this agreement up at a high of twelve and a half months and a tax free T-shirt at 22 plum street, many problems may contain courtyards, but the glass is a number two salad bowl. And/or the hot/cold spyglasses for star fruits and/or pumpkins. Star love. Star systems. Stars are nice. Everything explodes. Are you reading this? To talk about? Or do you prefer to subscribe to an alternative explanation?
Well, maybe just the coconuts. They can also be of a lime learn lemon sometimes, because sometimes the soda bottles up the valves. Exploding dining rooms. In range. All the range. If this provides. Enough aspiring wizards. Especially in the form of food, then water. Then turning around into a mug of cannonball surges (no sudden moments) of those full (of socks) containers in some of those salty containers. Containing, or preserved with salt. Contained. Especially by a crowd, or by natural forces, such as the waves, or the tides. Outpouring. Alone. Some Journalists. Half Hearted boomboxes. Your song.
A short poem or other. Set to words. To music. To be sung out loud. Out of this world. Out of disposable salad tongs. Used for picking up and holding things. Way too long. Those precious medals. Presenting for many, silver tongs (and gold tongs too) of fruit and painful flammable half-liters of way too many cars on the road home. (Huzzah!) The old chef’s old fashioned melon lions were designed to read true. What a story. Those edible plates. Gold, silver, platinum, and palladium too. Instruments of the larger body. Or secret society interrogation. Because. Whatever have you done to the nectarines?
For now with a really filling extreme numbers situation. Everyone crosses their body parts and stars are counting down from ten. Really slowly. So numerous, that the homeowner’s situation can buy large causes of your oxygen to power minor explosions. Kaboom! Boom! Boom. And nothing left is really harder to produce than odds.
So salty with a pear and cherry tomato left on the outside. To each. To everyone. To a portable sound system, typically including radio and/or a sealed plastic storage unit containing time. Containing the length of a rectangle. Containing the somewhat untouchable. Forever as a predetermined period of time, and player capable.
But the menu claims that side dishes might include. Videotapes, film, etc. If you have to ask. Of the powerful sound. It wants to know if we’re still discussing the ABCs, but no, just CDs and DVDs. The music to the glistening ears of the financial records industry. All eyes on banking. Baking. Bread. I never asked about the pineapple.
Kaboom! Wow! Cow! Kaboom! Like. Especially in legends and fairy tales. Like. Like and subscribe. Again. And especially when automatic devices are allowing movement in only one direction. Fruit must dance!
But I do not have that meal ticket just to take off from the heater overheating, once, twice, thrice, behind the curtains. As everything is in turn, cooking what can be known as water. The seas, the lakes, the rivers, and the rain. Transparency and brilliance. Sometimes laws. As the container knows just how to show the species of a lightning bug. And whatever happened to this mentos food chain. Like maybe in a cold/hot liquid hotness situation? I don’t make light of things. Dripping with maple syrup. Kaboom! Kaboom!
Kaboom! We shout out. This is the sap! That does not tell. Tell. Tell. Tell all. Tell me. Tallahassee, Florida. Avow. Bring forth. The maple leaf clover. The maple leaf rag. The maple leaf syrup. Or syrupy sap. With colorful autumn foliage. But never artificial sweeteners. Because. A tree or shrub with explosive leaves, such magical fruits, and sticky notes. Written. Bitten. Smitten. By dissolving sugar in boiling water. Hot hot hot. I’m gonna tell on you. So please forgive me?
And this just inside. Around the inside of the bowl of fruit. This only has the sound of a breaker box. But, will you be my spy on the inside? Not just hot liquid flour, sifting through the hands of time. Tick tock. 4 says. Oclock. As if to convey information (used to specify the hour of telling time). This is the official message left for Tallahassee after the tone. Don’t ever use that tone on me.
As really good beer comes so highly recommended. Like a small handheld telescope. And stickers. It freezes up the chains of what you only really need to know just once. A pipe dream on the propane, insane, your gain, propane tanks in the know. The magic. So you blow a short raspberry mandarin shortcake over the alpine residents. Way to go! I really must go. So so. So very sure to strike it rich and become a relief. Statue of our shadows. Or our doubts. Watch us sculpt some beauty in the marathon. Say, reassurance of relaxation. Ten times fast. Derived from inconsistency.
Again. Now. Again. But actually. You’re throwing all these words into a melting handshake. Put the slice of bread and pineapple on the side and roll with the croutons. One leaf at a time. To build a potato belt. Like always, out of tomatoes. At a remove from things. A letter to your casually dressed in vinaigrette circuit overwhelming breaker cubes.
I can’t even tell the difference. Anyway, what is that blown-up heater that potatoes flock to get a better view of your methane buildup and diet lights? I can’t even. Odd. The odds. Dimming after bedtime in the snow. A grab bag paper art chain hangs on what we do in the entrance of a grocery cave. Looking at fruit bats?
Looking into your eyes. Maybe I can see that we are in a flour way. But! You’re walking on a tightrope without caterpillar legs. Kaboom! Boom. Boom. Boom. Tick. Tock. Tick tock. TikTok? And strawberries (also tacos). In a city without crime. Songbirds learn to crime. The bells. A song of wings. And tacos (tacos). So, will entropy ever bend? Old as elevators and escalators. The jitterbugs in the attic. Rooms, floorplans, perfect keys. The arts of more. It’s tacos. This or because of that. A person or a group of people, replacing others who have been on duty (haha duty).
You say. We must have watered down the passionfruit, the melons that explode. As if an apricot could paint a grapefruit, because no apricot has ever really tried. Tired of pan political speech-tainted canned toucans. Still ruining all explosions of up and down the number line is busy on the other side, again. Against. Due west. Put up a fight. To send away. The talking swing at the septic tank. And problems that while under pressure of this knowledge dump won’t go away. Eat lettuce. Please.
Or. Point me in the direction of my sense of sound. Or taste. Or what to smell. An unspecified sniff of the unknown. Might be roses. Each. Cleaning out attractions too. The cardinal compass point of kitchen sinks. While starting with the boundaries or confines of an inside pocket voice.
Just Pineapple on the phone again. Stage muttering incoherently about those strawberry-maybe containers of glass experiments on your sticky notes. And also. Unhinged jaws jabber in the jingle of the jungle after you. You’ll never get another chance. So eat your vegetables. The game is on. Too loudly in the other room.
The dropped. The lost. The things inside your dream of space, flying kites. Angled up in branches. By the ebbing water. Or the storyteller’s hidden lockpick. Secret garden. Song. You shake the strawberries carefully, especially, like glue. As they once said, all watermelons and limes prevent the theatrical. And limes. And prairie candies. With this all should help, and pears, and water cooking is still the best place in an exploded lap dance. When shaken around, wash down the boiling salted causes, curses, curtains, causing whatever this is. For, here hold this. Here, I can cause a sealed room to fall in love again. I claim.
In order to catch another pineapple, or catch up with. To catch on. To catch a big fish. Tuna. To catch a blog fish. Mercury. Again. I can actually make out the words to show and tell. Because. Can you really believe this? They put a lid due east of here. This place or position. That they have lived here mosty. Of their lives and ladybugs.
Say. No more spilling coffee milk. This is a jumble of extremely incoherent speech parts as sometimes observed in kiwifruit and at the fire in your eyes (on fire). Hot hot hot. Or strawberry milkshakes and maybe containers used to like this much, but out at sea. It is way too hot to handle. Without observations.
Hot hot hot. Kaboom! The salt in the heat. The lead breadcrumbs to diet coke’s aficionados, such as plumbers. To periodically test all real food. The products of our lives. Flashing before our eyes. Ear nose and throat. We need a power tool. And water counts. The starfish down below. As if the tool is only nine years asleep, it implodes to be called an explosive while collapsing violently inwards as a downward spiral. User picnic, might better select these words. Hey, bingo! Like this unicorn tube. Left eating trees around the birthday of a retired sports jersey. In a smoke signal. Lost blows call after hours. Themselves to do this, of that which we explode on dust and rocket news. When space is actually up and also all around us. We are round.
Faking all your watermelons, limes, and city living. Because we must prevent theoretical backlash. At all costs. Of seared wings with very nice hard boiled eggs up on the freezer circuit. Motherboard. I thought that we were playing chess. Oh my. Just, overwhelming at a time of place. On the usual causes of natural interaction. We must cry. We must scream. We must gouge our eyes out, but listen. I sliced up rye bread into intangible pieces. A slice of your life like ants and watermelon orange little melons on an apple, like a bomb like oil. Both near and far. Messy and neat. I know. Everything Explodes.
Because I also claim that I am not a once exploded bulb. The brightest thing. To scoop out, shout (out), hollow out, jump out. Legs walking toward a real two-year-old 27 point system-certified bananas system. And it gives you bananas.
It gives you love. It gives you the sound of an explosion. As violently you have reached (out) for this if you value the valve thingee filling up with forget me not, magical, nonsense. Juice. By a small animal, especially a rabbit. Okay. Vampire bats. With you, life is very much above your altitudes. Signed and sealed by the cloud giants. Nice kites. They look like birds. Established, or secured (something).
Alarms. All sounding off the firewood of the microwave ovens. And pots and pans. It looks like this, and that, is about anything. Or everything at all. When you can wander these mystical woods where the jackfruit glows inside a maple leaf guitar.
You should temperature to check your cold feet at the door, and hot beer bottles for the potential to out bakesale the baking goods and boilerplated hot/cold emotional filtration systems. We can do a better explosion than these fools. For who can potentially splinter, and the bananas never talk about your stove, literally like water, ever again?
Was that a question? Who knows, but up next stop, this salinated softened softener. An explosion of grape mangos goes wow! You’re not too boring, old, myself, refers to things all bottled up. Like pickles. Explosive gains. And field rations. Soon we will all be playing the question game.
To have and to another thick-skinned cozy pop. A real pain in the pineapple and a painfully long standing break, dance, water, flow. Down the hatchet stream. New screaming. Touch my ears. The observer sprays the walls with your farts, ambition. Shut. Fasten or securely knock. To worsen all the talking farts, with blueberries and water. You only live once. Or twice. Or possibly thrice.
Just overly sunny. Lives. A tv summer on advice you want to know. Love breaks, but the potential is off the wall. Bouncing in the area are both. These berries. As trapped as ice. A frozen rose. Some valves that users like to paint in unfamiliar light. Stages. Like your nectarines implode. The road. Is rather its worth in gold than just hot oil and water balloons. Playing house cat. Surely.
The open house battery explosions of your household battery leftovers. Simply stated. After all that time it took you to take a bath, you still stink to the heavens sent to find out about the end of the universe, all existing matter and space considered as a whole, the cosmos even, maybe, just the end of another rainbow? In or out of topic, including your shiny casing out the order of operations.
Less than essentially just semantic overtures and mangoes dipped in raspberries like the zebra wood in halloween specials, fed to vegetables. Say, if a boo shouting ghosts shouting fire in a crowed theater of operating room sleeves, bomb squads a little water clean up by the garbadge fire, upward and over the projector helicopter, traffic patrol. And a dog in your uncarved emotions, no sadder molds of spores than just a parking ticket.
Well, with citrus fruits in town, some trees can build your body up and pressure down the water heaters. Citizens of carpenters like boilers more than ovens. Or try this hot take. Buy seared seaweed. Never die. Some trees! Kaboom! Hot! Hot. Hot.
As you only have to get the griller valve to water the break room on the surface thoughts. Like the bible says, the surface will suffice. But only a few hours later. Politics and religion walks into a pullup bar. Says pull the other one. But never press the big red button. It needs your love. So spooky. With portable bananas all important, just imported. Maybe 15 more bad questions and I’ll call the night a day.
For example, a politician is used to emphasize the basic, fundamental, and essential sphere of influence around the sun. A nearby star, so very unimaginably large. A ball of gas. Radiating light and heat as products of the electorate’s reactions.
Like the more common dog, affectionately called that cat a honeydew. The rivals of a witnessed tube of a good thing that you never mentioned fruit to anyone. A special kind of baked potato. All spoiled in electrical. The wires are like plates of sandwich things. Before baking on a scientific jury far away. Oh wait, it was supposed to be a salad bar. Politics and religion walk into a salad bar. The cabbage says the hot sauce is not leaving. Out of words. That are entitled to vote in an election. Now… Kaboom!
Boom! Boom. Boom. They should then be guided to develop their own questions. To research and explore the known universe. In this way the research is more directed than explosive. And never just a fact finding exercise. Eggs and toast.
Please note that you will not receive a reminder that your break is over the recommended limitations placed on airport cargo holds. I fold my bottle caps. Right back in time. When something about a pineapple writes down her address on a piece of paper bakery. You’re too hot for a dish that’s best served cold. Don’t burn yourself. I’ll help you try. Committee by the paper and machines. Write down, put down, your name.
Is canned food cans on the tv tuna drama queen. This bears in mind, be mindful of, a tray of what is called to be the landing on the stick your landing, landing spawn. With popcorn, sunlight, summertime. On the soles of its feet. Stepping. Carefully. But a can of perfectly marinated grapefruits and mandarins, marinated in natural gas and the decomposing soul of soda pop and rock and roll. You can’t lose this. With a dash of musical theater and flavored popcorn. These boarding houses of packages tend to be extremely dedicated out the door. After nectarines and apricots to feel good. A natural play at everything that you might hug. A bugbear.
Also, around perfect houses pitch sap dinner party unit floors. Slipping when this one time you go out. Everyone is talking to the rain. Asking for a change in weather maps. Your knowledge bulb is perfect pitch. The pitcher on the mound is made of mud. The river groans and the ghost of taco tastes buds in your pocket hook, is starting to demand some answers. Maybe. Set up your tent already. Directly through the forest’s heart of the vampires and other things immortal, that hate the garlic on your breath. A thorn in one’s soft fleshy side, the great bane of one’s life debt. Sometimes roses. Then.
You burst or shatter violently and noisily. A name is heard. As of a resulting rapid combination of combustions you control. Decomposition is an artform. Excessively rewriting these internal pressures, and/or some other process of the ethereal authorial intent on grand filtration aberatuses on what we say explodes when blueberries are exotic. Typically scattering fragments widely. All around the globe.
Wood-burning fireplaces. That more than awesome kid is set for the sting string bean counting. Adventure of a lifetime spent indoors. The freezer seems to be a talking point. Also cold. No tropical quick answer to the other guests of aerosol and oranges lost. during excessive inventory checklists of the familiar and the vegetables on the newer stoves. Of sunlight from your glasses. I must ask. Which reason unburned coffee bomb familiar will you choose tonight?
Of the approaching large machines that watch you and critique, they say. We are failing in our sacred duty (haha duty) to make noise. That which fails and shapes the valves as we explode your bedsheets blamed for backdating all time and space, just never. See an explosion that watches over the dropped conversation started. Show of hands. A shower piece of art. A curtain calls the bird out, wow. This is the you as of now.
Laughing in what can be an aftermath of taming time and everything. Due soon, the opening grapes of the mango nation mission switchboard, has additional plums for the long way home, but we will get there. The end is in sight (I hope). One salivated, Two softened, Three pierces a shaking hand of applesauce and cranberry extras. Listen.
More sounds of apples to explode. We go about to open up. You hear the cries. The horns of glass. Kaboom. Just another day out in this world. Book! Needs splatter. Boom! Needs more. Kaboom! Ends of a very good noise in the wrong sealed dining room, in enough gasses times the next line out of your mouth. You speak. The next heaters are a hundred, marking just enough of the world. As the sky falls down.
We scoops out bookends to tell ourselves we do not mind this resolution. Papers turn. Backs up against the northern poles like your words that grow on trees for sounds that shatter things. Uneven footwork.
And then there’s canopies of sealed ice papaya kiwis. Glass potato pancake stoves. On fire in the warmest feelings. Just like gas station food storage, peaches, and explosions you can’t rock that boathouse. Especially one thing. On a railroad landline telephone. Out in the new world with a platform made of boiling-hot juice ants and often one or more building blocks pretending to be food. I say that, but I’d eat that saying in a heartbeat. If I had one. And I have one. A local carpenter popping into existence on the side of what is used to mostly represent the sound of a loud explosion just before. We were talking about machines.
Even when you wake up and this has never been a dream. Reality is learning how to read between the lines and that’s okay. If only once upon a time, maybe if this basket-based mango wood-burning fireplace because of your outward appearance about personally dropped explosive flare-ups is out of service. We can save our clippings and return back to our starting place. The luck of an espresso up and on and over things.
Very rapidly to a safe distance. Boom! Boom. Boom. Fruit! Fruit. Fruit. Because maybe you actually aren’t actually just a pineapple. Lemon. Lime. Or maple syrup. Noted. Indeed. Noted. Someone will have to come and fix the filing system, Add bananas. Maybe mangoes.
Through observation, inquiry, or information. Good to know. When. One wants to be a fruit. To shimmer and sparkle. To roar and fade. Forever and always. Just to glance away. You caught a glimpse of the great expanse, in particular each of the main areas into which the sea is divided geographically.
The waves, the main stage, the foam, and the profound. Forever showering great knowledge and/or insight, it is I, your personal rain cloud, as you dance, skip, and flicker into another conversation, especially an informal one. Kaboom!
Painting Your Nightmares Green
The codeword for your password might be alchemy. As there is a knocking at your door. You open it. To reinvent the circle. Then the square. Revealing daylight and an open bucket of green paint. They say. You will not remember us. But that’s okay. You’ve been up all night. Painting your nightmares green. In the morning. When you woke up. They were pretending to be vegetables. I mean sure. Why not believe them? After all. We’re only nightmares once.
The Spinach Sings Goodnight
All spinach is surrounded
by a field of spinach which pushes
or pulls all other fields of spinach
and all things made of spinach,
kale, and cabbage leaves
that are located within
the spinach’s line of sight.
Because its interior acts like a spinach magnet,
the center of your house is surrounded by
a spinach field that affects all things
made of spinach based materials,
such as your spinach artichoke dip.
And this is why, before you go to sleep tonight,
you should place the spinach artichoke dip
in a tupperware container, and secure it safely
in the mighty vault that is your fridge.
It will sing to you, and if you listen closely
you will hear it faintly, even upstairs
as you lie in your bed, waiting to fall asleep.
Almost like a lullaby, if you ignore the words.
Of freedom. Of spinach grand superiority.
Of stabbing you lethally while you’re sound of sleep.
The spinach sings goodnight.
Lagotic Moon 