T
Tim B
Guest
Memories of chickens on sawtelle blvd.
Often on walks down the
Street I will reside on for one more week
I will treat my
Lately depression starved
Stomach to a vanilla
Ice cream cone at
The neighborhood McDonalds
And as I walk into the glass door I smell
The meat cooking immediately
And I am sickened
And I hold my breath and stare
At the floor to take my mind to
Another place, only to find
It wandering to the countless
People who walked on piss and
Graced the McDonalds tile
With the presence of their piss
Boots.
And when I am two spots away from my turn at the
Register I look in the back
To see the yard bird in the fryer.
And I am taken back to
A run down drag strip
In Dinwiddie, Virginia
The remanants of segregation painted
Sill on the walls directing members of
Uncle sams lower caste where to step in piss.
And a grandfather has taken me and he stands
So much larger than my eight year old frame.
And he smokes cigarettes that smell like
Mints and he wears a brown members only
Jacket, and he whispers things to me between the races,
Anecdotes that cannot be recalled for poetry,
Only when needed in real life capers.
And he buys me a piece of fried chicken,
And I sit in the stands, and the engines ring
Pierces my ears and the sting scares me and makes me
Hunker in on the old man, who likes it. He wants me to know
Hes one of the ones who will teach me, but I do not know
It yet. And I tear away the greasy
Skin of the chicken,
And I expose its flesh,
And their amidst the shiny white
Was its vein.
A vein,
It carried blood,
Even the feeble mind
Knows the weight of this truth.
I was going to eat
Something that lives.
It has blood in it,
It has a heart.
What am I doing…
And I threw the chicken between the bleachers.
And I would later eat many more pieces of chicken.
But not that one
Not that day.
The bird was most
Likely consumed
By other birds.
And the thought of that.
Not saving it further embarrasment by
Taking its flesh to
The garbage
Still plagues me.
And now my turn at the register has come and
Gone, and my mind has settled
And I lick the vanilla melting
Over my knuckles.
And I begin to remember a man
In a brown members only jacket,
Smoking cigarettes that smelled
Like mint.
i welcome critique not just good or bad, if its bad tell me why please...thank you.
not that im too upset, this guys only question on his profile says it all about him.
Often on walks down the
Street I will reside on for one more week
I will treat my
Lately depression starved
Stomach to a vanilla
Ice cream cone at
The neighborhood McDonalds
And as I walk into the glass door I smell
The meat cooking immediately
And I am sickened
And I hold my breath and stare
At the floor to take my mind to
Another place, only to find
It wandering to the countless
People who walked on piss and
Graced the McDonalds tile
With the presence of their piss
Boots.
And when I am two spots away from my turn at the
Register I look in the back
To see the yard bird in the fryer.
And I am taken back to
A run down drag strip
In Dinwiddie, Virginia
The remanants of segregation painted
Sill on the walls directing members of
Uncle sams lower caste where to step in piss.
And a grandfather has taken me and he stands
So much larger than my eight year old frame.
And he smokes cigarettes that smell like
Mints and he wears a brown members only
Jacket, and he whispers things to me between the races,
Anecdotes that cannot be recalled for poetry,
Only when needed in real life capers.
And he buys me a piece of fried chicken,
And I sit in the stands, and the engines ring
Pierces my ears and the sting scares me and makes me
Hunker in on the old man, who likes it. He wants me to know
Hes one of the ones who will teach me, but I do not know
It yet. And I tear away the greasy
Skin of the chicken,
And I expose its flesh,
And their amidst the shiny white
Was its vein.
A vein,
It carried blood,
Even the feeble mind
Knows the weight of this truth.
I was going to eat
Something that lives.
It has blood in it,
It has a heart.
What am I doing…
And I threw the chicken between the bleachers.
And I would later eat many more pieces of chicken.
But not that one
Not that day.
The bird was most
Likely consumed
By other birds.
And the thought of that.
Not saving it further embarrasment by
Taking its flesh to
The garbage
Still plagues me.
And now my turn at the register has come and
Gone, and my mind has settled
And I lick the vanilla melting
Over my knuckles.
And I begin to remember a man
In a brown members only jacket,
Smoking cigarettes that smelled
Like mint.
i welcome critique not just good or bad, if its bad tell me why please...thank you.
not that im too upset, this guys only question on his profile says it all about him.
Continue Writing, you show true potential (although I think you'd be better at short stories)