It took its toll on my eyes,
heated red it persists to add to rights unheard of, not added to recipes of disaster. It wants for me to relax, to break with a mind to sabotage elements of beans, sheets, sleep. Yet, the winning was taken, was eaten, was known for heat - not from fresh means, but powder it disturbed me - a lazy means of entering the fray, the mess, the blind albatross of soup. The darkness, the grief, shadows of happiness, joy, but missing clues to the unconscious, the night pulls on what? To where? You were there in bed, but were not at the latest dinner fiasco, an emotion simmering beyond twilight it persists, it meanders past all reason. It needs to be told, it needs to be added to ingredients, this stay of tomato, of mere hardship whether perceived or wasted in the moment, stirring, waiting for dinner guests to be seated, yearning for heavy eyes, reconciled thoughts. It was not long ago that a time of simple chili held, posting itself as content with life, with bean and soup, a target of planned families disturbing no one, with recipes of disaster, with mystical powders not giving in to imagined tastes, powerless to change peppers or reality, holding to the elegance of steak, beef, tromping on hamburger as a garnish. It will shock the senses this - an English garden run amuck, linguini with sauce, fleeing for safety in the more tangible, the dish set in stone. Not this as heat goes, it mocks the bed, the disaster of the heart, darkness of unspoken grief. It’s not the burn, but the loss of odds, the bookmakers are against us as she persists in her weights and measures. Whether trivial or catastrophic, unyielding, the squalid recipe, the hands of crepes and biscuits and other prizes bore when sided to sleep or the chili pepper. C 2014 Larry Ingram
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Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture. Categories
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December 2018
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