On shooting insulin before you can eat (or five prompts for dinner)

Unzip the test kit. Uncap the test strip holder. Take a test strip out of the plastic cylindrical holder. Take out the pricker unit. Set the trigger. Lightly press the pricker on the finger tip with the least purple pinpricks. Release the trigger. Ouch. Tiny needle pierces your finger tip. Flinch Your red blood flows Slide your finger along the edge of the test strip so your blood collects on the strip. Use other hand to close tissue over the bleeding finger and press. Watch the meter for the number that is never good enough. Take the shooter insulin pen out of the pouch and key in the dose 16mg. for a higher carb meal (yes noodles yum). Screw in the needle point and press it against belly, push needle into soft stomach tissues. Press with constant pressure the protruding knob dial until dose has been administered. Pull the needle out. Yeah now I get to eat. (all this is actually in real life sped up real automatic and fast because who wants to wait to eat food.)

the coming feast of earth; or, like the moon, towards dark

near the festival of first fruits and the dark moon, 42011

for 17 days
after seeing you
beyond voice
breathe out "please help me"

i see how the wane will come
and i cannot eat or sleep, i cannot
take it in, and also the gladness
overpowers me, i see how perfect
everything is, just as it is

it's a relief to return home from the airplane
i feel guilty for the beauty of my life
a hospital room is a kind of jail
and wellness only comes for visits

to never taste again, to never breathe deep on my own
what does that mean?
i think the waning moon, moving towards black
knows more than she's letting on, could help us both

what do you think it means, the festival
of the harvest of first fruits? all that we eat
has died first, dies into our bodies, which
82 x 365 x 24 x 60 seconds of writ(h)ing later
we also die into the earth

the earth eats us,
that's what a grave is,
a mouth

i am glad to be feastware
for the belly of gaia
may i be a splendid repast
for the swirling girl
giddy and young
who dances her way round
with black knower moon

may
the tin-stitched etymologies
of your poems
be spice and mint so i am savory
for the coming feast of earth

Drinks at the Gold Spike

We laugh and laugh.
The waitress, who is also a dealer and a middle manager,
has brought back the girliest drink the hidden artist of a bartender could make:
hilarious pink froth (a “Pink Squirrel” we surmise)
presented with a thick straw flanked by cherries and topped
with a dollop of whipped cream in sculptural representation
of a penis. (Only at a small casino like this, and one struggling to cater
to the curious class—to we aging hipsters exactly—
could we order by adjective this way.)
We attack the pink drink gleefully in the photos.

The unmet mixologist sends a green version next:
tropical-frog maraschinos to match the swampy shake.
Call the first drink the “Caucasian Boyfriend”;
the second “Pistachio Casanova” or “The Incredible Fulk.”

Stevie orders something “sinister,”
and out comes an opaque, burnt umber shot.
We pass it around for tasting. The first impression:
Jagermeister at room temperature—evil enough itself—
but then the attack of rubbing alcohol—
maybe 151 rum or straight ethanol (if that’s legal),
and a hint of absinthe and maybe vinegar,
but who is tasting anything at that point?

In a series of photos, we take turns grimacing horridly,
glass of syrup in hand as the scant mouthful
sears lips, gums, tongues, throats, larynxes, esophagi
and stomachs. It's like eating a despair sandwich,
impending loss on sourdough (not good sourdough).
It drives the soul to the wrong side of an unknown town
where morasses of formless fears coagulate
into the secret twisted spine that makes what’s wrong, wrong.

And a few hours later, out comes a startling fart—
quick, loud and superheated.
That’s a drink I would call a Cluster F,
a Neitzsche in Hell, a Gulf Spill, a Character Assassination,
a Hubris, a Hoarcrux, a word that means
"an indiscretion that turns into a total disaster."

But Ari won’t end on that note. Remember:
it’s only a drink mixed by a comedian/bartender
for aging wiseacres on their most recent farewell tour.

A taste of honey

A taste of honey

A hungry night owl bee
Pollinates the silver moon
Milk-weed flower, a galaxy
Flavor captured in a long tapered wooden spoon.

A Pickled rind of lime
Pounded into continental sweetheart pastes
Fates burn down time
Lapsed tastes.

A long lasting chile burst
Signals surrender to imaginary woes
Candle lit swords slice fiery thirsts
Fire’s black ashes bury wigwam toes.

A yellow & ground fine cornmeal
Peace offering to my numbers
Stirred into polenta deals
Blown eastward in my slumbers.

Poetry Prompt: Food

Food comes first.

The letter A begins every alphabet in which in lives. Same for the Greek Alpha and Hebrew Aleph. These first characters evolved from a pictogram representing the head of an ox. In early human cultures, oxen represented food, both as animals used in farming and as sources of milk and meat.

When oxen became symbolized with pictographs and that symbol evolved into a letter, it's no wonder that letter remains first in line, because no matter what else, ya gotta eat.

Write a poem about food. It could be about your favorite meal, or where your food comes from, or an what non-material things sustain you. You could share a recipe or a restaurant review. There are many directions you might explore. For bonus points, begin your poem with the letter A and mention at least one specific food within your poem.

Tags: food, poem, poet's handle