Ode to Chef Boyardee: A Poem

I scrape the last ravioli
from his inner tin walls—his cylindrical ribs
contain my princely dinner.
My fork presses onwards
into the man’s metal viscera, pursuing the mush
of his sweet guts, the succulent cardiac red
of his tomato paste innards.

All day I have awaited this
the way a warring king, after a day spent waging
and wielding, wants for mutton;
I am a royal, ready to ravage
the hidden tenderness of rout’s canned spoils.
The chef, that smiling man—
rotund fleshy jubilance on the can—
is my jester, then, and in my castle,
monarchs dig deeply into the meat of their courtiers.

I empty him into the bowl. His very soul
sloshes into the glass, enriched
iron red; in two minutes’ time,
I will slurp him with queen-befitting greed.
I will cherish each mangled droplet as it sluices
towards my stomach, as the last of his drippings
splash past my omnipotent tongue,

the muscles of my body
a churning fiery machine anticipating
the arrival of his liquefied sinews, the steam
his sacrifice will provide.
All day I have awaited this, and now
I may vanquish what is mine.


The Lament of the Refrigerator

Don’t open me.

Inside here,

it is so frosty and clean.

I rest in the dark

with the produce,

and the dairy,

and the meat,

sharing with them

what little protection

I have to offer.

We are so comfortable

in the corner

of the kitchen.

We are so close,

so happy,

so much like a family.


You take from me

the things I have worked so hard

to keep safe;

you turn on the lights,

disrupt the tranquility;

you heat and destroy.

If you stick your head into me,

I will become

the winds of the tundra,

swirling and desolate,

into your ears.

If you stick your hands into me,

I will make

the most horrible cry,

the best of the bonechillers,

and I will become

the most hopeless of all monsters.

If you do so much

as touch

my metal handle,

I will try

with all my might

to burn you

with cold.


Stay away.

Don’t touch me.

Don’t open me.


I crack the egg

on the side of the ribbed glass

bowl and watch it swim, then

I send another down

and another, and they

all flirt and play around. Slowly,

they dance around in their

own syrup, the only care

they have in the whole world

being to swirl

and to glisten.


A yolk splits and spills,

bleeding incessantly.

I feel guilty. I have killed

it. The bowl is flooding

with yellow ooze.

Slowly but surely, it is

spreading, covering the

surface of the pool, blocking the

sun, like clouds.

There are unmutilated eggs that

are soft to the touch, and

spring, impermeable, from




They are vibrant little stars

that I can hold, whose

powers are above me, and

will neither harm me nor

help me.

They seem content that I

cannot harm them, but

that’s not my intent

anyway. All I want to do is dip in

with them, swim and

feel lively and bright,

be the color of the sun,

be young and

careless. The only thing

that I look for is

comfort, peace of mind, like

the lazy happiness in

the ribbed glass bowl.


Stop thinking. Stop

thinking. Add

milk. Whisk.

soft, juicy, vain, and wise

i will take off my shoes when i get home
just to feel the carpet beneath my toes.
sometimes i will paint snowy scenes
just because it makes me happy.
sometimes i will gorge on an entire package of
grape tomatoes, round and rosy,
sweet and delicious,
just because they taste good when they bleed.
sometimes i will ignore the commandments
and i put on makeup in two mirrors,
from which i can get every angle.
sometimes i let my thumbs tell me what to say,
because they always seem to know.
sometimes i wear converse
just to feel like i fit in. but
all the time, every hour of every day,
every day of every year,
and every year i have greeted by counting backwards,
that’s when i release myself,
soft, juicy, vain, and wise.

Pi Day


the number of three-point-one-four
is a number all geeks adore
the number that a circle needs
to perform its rounded needs
the perfect number that exists
for circular relationships
it is the perfect number since
number-d is circumference
for area, square radii
this number will never lie
it is impossible to cry
when three-point-one-four is pie

. . .

math is so sweet in key lime
(and number worship’s not a crime)

Happy Pi Day Everyone!

Cereal and I: A Love Affair


For the past week or so, I’ve been pretty obsessed with cereal. It’s not that I’ve been stalking my kitchen cupboards in a trench coat or have I been rocking slowly, foaming at the mouth, thinking of the breakfast delight…but I have been consuming more cereal, or at least in higher concentration, than I ever have before. Now that my house holds a small fortune in Cookie Crisp and Krave,  it’s as though I’ve discovered that all things sweet and crunchy really are for breakfast. And for snacks sometimes, and maybe even dessert.

My sudden infatuation is probably not a healthy one, considering the supposed dangers of sugary cereals, but it could be worse. It really is something like a bad rom-com:


Me: Oh, Apple Jacks and Honey-Nut Cheerios, you’re so bad for me, but it feels so right!

Cereal: I think you look better with those extra pounds. Let’s be together, forever!

Me: You’re so sweet. I love you!

Cereal: I love you more!

(Epic sidewalk-in-the-rain kiss)


Or a corny Shakespearean (or sort of Shakespeare-ish, anyway) sonnet:


I need not a waffle, for you are my sweet,

The one and only meal that I need eat!

Butter and jelly can stay with their toast,

For you are my lovely, and so I do boast.

Oatmeal is too wet, and mushes in milk,

But you stay crunchy in cow-produced silk!

Oh Puffs! And Flakes! And all of your kin,

I could dine with you again and again,

I could dwell in your boxes, and stay till I die!

For you are my love, and so sweareth I.


I guess you could say that cereal and I are going steady. We see each other at least once a day, making excuses to visit whenever our hearts hunger for it. I hope that a love like this lasts until the end of mass-produced edibles!

Ciao for now,