In Angel Land,
sometimes we eat
ice cream in the morning.
And sometimes that is
after we’ve had
blissful, woman to woman
morning sex,
with soft skin and gaspy moans
melted into each other.
And sometimes
we eat ice cream
when we haven’t had
that blissful morning sex
but we wanted it,
so we take a deep, still moment
to savor the rich and sweet
cream instead.
Either way,
the ice cream in Angel Land,
on a sunny, rainy, or cloudy morning
is always
quite a delightful experience.
Tag: food
Folds of skin
sat on a plate in a friend’s kitchen.
People talked about the skin,
associated it with this friend
when its vision was requited in their memories.
Eventually, most fell out of touch
with the owner of Plate,
but never did they forget the blooming gore
of that Georgia O’Keeffe-like still life.
In fact,
many are reminded daily,
when they eat tortillas dipped in chili,
when chili is poured atop a hot dog,
when they go to sleep at the end of such days.
… “Folds of skin
sat on a plate in a friend’s kitchen.
Who was that? Whose plate was that?”
It was 2 weeks ago
that I bought this jumbo bag of corn chips.
And in that time…
I’ve cried about 7 times,
most of them gently.
Once, sitting on my back porch,
looking into the woods,
still feeling an unending love for my cat Pinky
who passed away 5 years ago.
I had sex with 2 women and 1 man in that time.
Got drunk 6 times.
Wrote 5 poems and 2 songs and edited some fiction.
Started a new job that is mentally draining.
Threw a birthday party for Pinky’s brother, Blue.
Made 2 new good friends.
Saw a couple old friends I hadn’t seen since
the pandemic started.
Had crème brûlée for breakfast twice.
Ate pickles and olives for dinner once.
Had an upsetting conversation with my mother.
Continued falling in love with a woman
I’ve lusted, loved, and respected for 22 years.
And so I sit here on a Saturday morning
with a beer
and a near empty jumbo bag of corn chips
impressed these chips have lasted me this long
and seen me through so much.
Clive got a new car. He's eating a ham sandwich inside of it. They forgot to put on the mustard and mayonnaise. Those crazy kids.
She looks out the window
with blue eyes,
her breakfast burrito in hand,
the light of the day slices
gold streaks
upon them.
And she finds that the goats
once playing with each other,
headbutting heads,
have tired,
then she realizes
nothing lasts forever,
everything eventually expires.
Her head feels better.
Her mind more clear now.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
novamartinpoetry.com 