“Packed Lunch”

Image courtesy of L. Alvarado

“Packed Lunch”

Cherry tomatoes, celery.

Mini-carrots, stringy cheese.

Butter crackers, square Cheez-Its.

snack-sized baggies, so it fits.

Raspberry juice box, flexi straw,

ice pack cooling, as it thaws.

My day brings many, many things,

while you’re at school, I’m in meetings.

The only way I get to be,

there for you, is when you eat.

So, look at each and every piece,

and know I put my love in between.

When I make your lunch for you,

I’m hoping your day goes smooth.

We’ll meet up later,

to hash it out.

And you’ll tell me,

what to keep out.

And when I go to make it new,

I’ll remember the revised menu.



You’re a ham fisted, nostril puss, put off.

A suffocating, son of a bitch.

A red-eyed, torn membrane, scratchy gulch.

Itchy pyrrhic sandpaper senses,

begetting a breathing tragedy.

Comfort, an oasis, yearning for the first frost of winter.

Dirty seed, blowing to the winds, blowing from the trees.

Blow me!

Grizzly gross green.

Headaches thumping.

Kleenex pumping.

Burst pipe nostrils.

Sinus clog, green-yellow eyeliner.

Sophisticated spores spawning misery.

Crusted, nasal mineshaft vein,

haunted by cemented boogerplasms.

Nose hair tendrils throughout, impossible to retrieve without a monumental effort.

A quick blow, or two,

A Rorschach tableau, if you will?

Winds of seasons change,

a necessity now,

not just a want.

“Low Battery”

“Low Battery”

Where went the urgency we once had?

What happened to our fluid flow?

Life got a hold of both of us,

and placed passion in escrow.

Get getting gotten gone,

resolve to start again.

A Once to hang Upon,

beginning nears an end.

The daily grind of living,

smothers spontaneity.

A self-imposed life sentence,

oh, dream of liberty.

End of days, dark silence.

Sitting hand in hand.

A quieted alliance,

is what true love demands.

“Proper Lunch”


“Proper Lunch”

As I sit here,

I can’t help but notice the two of you.

You seem to be engaged in a careful social rite.

You are sharing a proper lunch.

I know your secret, though.

Let’s drop the pretenses, shall we?


Every evenly forked morsel carefully guided up under your protecting hand and into your mouths.

You block the sight of your chewing with the unforked hand.

Chewing with precision and wired shut jaws.

Nothing out of place.

Symmetry on target.

No sloshing, grinding, and tearing.

Not yet, anyways.

A right proper lunch.

Propriety observed.

No acknowledgement of animal delights,

or baser natures.

Banal carnality.

No stains, no scents, no sweat.

Elbows off the table.

Gentle, exacting movement.


Ah, but the pressure mounts,

and eventually, the dam will burst.


The tension’s necessity will overcome propriety, and you will eat gluttonously.




Flailing, tears and grunts.

Mouth fulls of salty sustenance.

Gorging, past the point of full.


Then, and truly then, the hands come down, you chew expressively and without regard.

You embrace a baser nature, and become more of yourself, and more of each other.


Eat, drink, and be merry.

Anticipation, a huge building tease.


Let it rip.


Time is of the essence.


When faced with the urgency that later presents itself, there will only be guarded hands over mouths to mute the escaping cries of ecstasy.


Digest that.

“Potential Energy Transferring to Kinetic Energy”



“Potential Energy Transferring to Kinetic Energy”


the salvation of a single pour,

rolled down the tap, I wanted more.

I know not how it came to this?

tension, between our every kiss.

your breath reneged, despite the thrill.

your smoothness guides my greedy swill.

a stolen glance, by chance indeed.

your apathy denies my need.

please, please, please…

concede, …

an opportunity for love’s reprieve.

I love thee,

I repeat…


I love thee.