Alex (Greenspan) and I created this after an epic waffle breakfast this morning. For those who aren't familiar with the poetry game, we each wrote a few lines and then folded over the paper so that we could only see the other person's last line. And Voila!:
Waiting for Waffles
This opus of a halfling: half-eaten half-life
core, shaped flower, shaped cunt
seeds patient, or dawdling. Decent? Darling
am I decent? Is it
crispy? Resentment flows
like pancake batter; feel it
between your toes and
that other soft space, roof of the mouth;
the underside of some steamed lid:
we’re cooking bow-tie pasta, darling,
sautéing anxieties on the side.
Sorry about the tattoos
and the miniatures; the butter-
knife wounds I never shared:
can we still be friends?
Can we still sit--all dimples and clenched teeth
and squirming toes?
Watch for blueberries
underfoot; thorns and dragonflies;
love and reading-glasses.
We wish we could wait, unassuming,
the way a browning artichoke does
head chopped off,
head atop the slender neck
of a vase. Dead chess set. Herniated
piano-fake eyelashes. The cranes
are drying. A poem is cooking.
Let simmer until supple.
I think we should put break up the second stanza such that it reads:
ReplyDeleteseeds patient, or dawdling. Decent? Darling
am I decent? Is it
crispy? Resentment flows
like pancake batter; feel it
between your toes and
that other soft space, roof of the mouth;
the underside of some steamed lid:
we’re cooking bow-tie pasta, darling,
sautéing anxieties on the side. Sorry
about the tattoos
and the miniatures; the butter-
knife wounds I never shared:
can we still be friends?