My art teacher once made us do a “found art” project. Mine was a shoebox painted black on the inside with a white candle. I flipped the thing upside down. It did not mean anything. I’m sure I said it did so I could get the points.
Here are some found poems from years ago. Found in the floorboards of my computer. Maybe a bit dusty and outdated. Meaningful? Not sure. Worthy to be shared? Sure. Why not?
And yes…every single one involves food.
she bit off a hunk of the meat
before delving into the carrot stew
and the other people at the table
glanced at her curiously, but quickly
for they did not want to seem surprised.
the gulps of broth inched down her
gullet and the others saw her thyroid
bob up and down her neck like an apple in
dad and I camped at bowman lake last night up the north fork. a twenty some mile road, the majority on washboard gravel roads. read Brautigan’s “Tokyo-Montana Express” by the lake until I started getting attacked by killer mosquitoes. we hiked up to Numa lookout—about 6 miles up and a pretty decent view. in a burned area. then drove back on a different washboard gravel road to coram and ate at a restaurant attached to a gas station that was not a truck stop. very interesting set-up.
our waitress was working dinner alone and she had bottle black hair and a missing front tooth. heavy-set with a halter top and glitter on her chest. far from personable, but efficient. I guessed her name was “Cherry” or some other food-sounding name, but she signed the ticket “Bobby Jo.” It fit perfectly. I liked her immediately though she was overall rude to all the customers. Her boyfriend’s name was Darryl (because she talked to him briefly on the phone) and I figure he is bad news and so she has all the reasons in the world to be rude to a few folks, even if they have nothing to do with her life except to order beef stew or a slice of huckleberry-strawberry pie and stale decaf. they didn’t even know her boyfriend’s name was Darryl.
anyway…I’m sitting in an orange rocking chair that leans too far back for comfort. a mouse is caught in the rat trap but I have a weak stomach when it comes to small rodents so I’ll let my dad deal with it. listening to an Allison Krauss mix that Megan who I worked with burned me. he is now throwing out the mouse that got stuck in the rat trap and he is wearing Old Navy sandals that I bought for a dollar and are three or four sizes too big for me. I need a shower. and a visa for Ghana and about 7 different immunizations like typhoid and yellow fever. god I hope I don’t get malaria. there are half-consumed pockets and boxes of decon lying throughout the cabin, set erratically behind couches and in empty cabinets. mohorovicic discontinuity. (n). that’s a new one—“the boundary between the earth’s crust and the mantle, occurring on average at 8 km/5 mi under the oceans to 35 km/22 mi under the continents.” sounds like a good one to throw out for balderdash.
dinner, alone. (2006).
gave up a good friend
for a fruit smoothie and whipped cream dinner
because, well, that is easier
to fall in love with the cream in my throat
and the strawberry syrup.
the aftertaste can be cured
with wintergreen gum. and there is
nothing pretentious about
renting art films
if you don’t pretend
you really understand them.
(nothing worse than analyzing
a good story).
or a doomed romantic relationship
that overshadows the “rest of”
the good friends ask
they know I can’t give.
the truth is, I’m bored.
bored of being called
“young” by twenty-eight
a medium strawberry-banana,
bored of assumptions.
“You’ll find the right person,
“You’ll find Jesus.”
I’m NOT looking!
with whipped cream!
when you “grow up”
you’ll have a house and
cook for a husband and
children and cats.
but once they realize
all of their meals consist
of syrup and cream,
you will end up eating
and then you will realize,
this isn’t so bad.
Sweeping up the dust…
Stock image of “broken floorboards.” Because, the internet has everything.