PeaceLove&Fashion: March 2008

So my final poetry portfolio is due on Wednesday and to get ahead I decided to print all those poems out today! I'll put a few up here...they're pretty funny.

Food Poem

Chicken Poop

Solid white chicken poop
plops to the ground
How is this breakfast?
Cracking the shell
to reveal a congealed yellow yolk
resembling the fluffy baby chick it could have been
How is this breakfast?
The guts from the shell
slink like a snake
into the frying pan with a sizzle
How is this breakfast?
Cooking away into shriveled old skin
slowly
rotting,
bubbling,
dying
salt and pepper can’t even save the pathetic dish
This is not breakfast.

Technology Poem

This is Why My Poem is Not Typed...

A mind of your own
power switches are pointless
you do what you want without any concern for me
I want a poem
and you give me that same stupid blank look
on.
no...
ON!!
no...
On?
3...2...1...no.
I hate you on so many levels
but I need you so much
you don't care, you just move on to other people
Max wants MySpace, you make it work
Mom wants Ebay, you agree
Dad wants AutoTrader.com, you give him the world
All I want is a typed "technology" poem
Consider it impossible

Extended Metaphor/Simile Poem

Sunday’s Dessert

Vanilla
shaded mounds
of ice cream, Sitting in
my Snowbowl, Fluffy but
solid, Steep scoops of delight,
rich chocolate pathways, Oozing
from the cherry red summit, Sugary
sweet peaks, Dashed with a rainbow of
sprinkles, Cascading down the slow melting cliffs,
Snowboarding is a devastatingly delicious ice cream sundae

Love Sonnet (this one is my personal favorite)

Every song you sing is a thrill to me
I Wanna` Be Startin` Somethin` with you
I'd do anything to be your Billie Jean
Will you please consider being my boo?
When I hear your music I fall for you
I love when you tell those girls to Beat It
Your songs put me in a trance like voodoo
Read this poem and to me you will commit
We can get married and make this legit
Michael J. our love is Human Nature
The Lady In Your Life, I will be it
I can ignore the fact that you're obscure
In this lifetime please be my P.Y.T.
Michael Jackson and I, happy we'll be

Stream Of Consciousness Poem

I Feel Bad for Max’s Poor Mother…

In the car preparing your brain.
Be patient.
Be patient.
Be patient.
A once impossible task lies ahead.
He meets you in front of Victoria’s Secret. You start the strange brisk walk to Dillard’s.
He talks and talks and talks about nothing for such a long time.
Is he still talking?
What is he saying?
You finally reach Dillard’s.
You steer him away from the tacky green plaid Ralph Lauren shorts with the horse patches sewn all over them. Then away from the yellow argyle sweater vests. Then away from the backwater plaid button downs.
He’s like a five year old.
He needs a leash.
What is he talking about?
Did he really just say “spiffy jiffy” in a sentence?
Finally the destination is reached. A Daniel Cremieux sign blares through the men’s dress clothes department. You find him some suitable pants. You grab them in every color offered.
He wants a maroon and green button down shirt. You pretend to hold it for him and somehow “lose” it. He finds an obnoxious Hawaiian print shirt, you ignore him when he asks your opinion.
Mr. Mickelson would buy that shirt in a second.
The fight to get him to the fitting room is nearly unbearable. He insists that it will all fit.
It won’t.
It won’t.
It won’t.
“Go in the fitting room now!”
Ten minutes later he is in pants that give MC Hammer a run for his money. You tell him no but he argues (like a five year old) that they are fine. You feel like his mother.
Tuck in your shirt.
Tuck in your shirt!
TUCK IN YOUR SHIRT!
You feel hopeless until five hours later he comes out of the fitting room in a pair of pants that actually fit! Plus, his shirt fits and it’s tucked in!
VICTORY!
You separate all of the clothes he tried on into piles of “likes” and “dislikes” then he picks from the “likes” pile what he wants to buy.
You insist he folds the clothes in the fitting room and another argument begins.
Just do it, Max.
Please?
FITTING ROOM…FOLD…NOW…GO.
Finally we’re finished. He marches to the cashier.
It feels like victory
until you realize
he is buying that ugly maroon and green button down shirt.