Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Train Ride

So, I found this small book I wrote for a project I did in 2009 where I rode the subway and wrote a poem during every stop of the Blue Line in DC. I re-read them tonight, and I thought "I should share this with the masses". I wrote these all in about a minute or two. I still find them humorous. I decided to choose a topic beforehand, so I could write quickly and not be stuck thinking too much. Be forewarned; there is a lot of cursing.

Farragut West

Turkey, I roast you in my oven.
I eat you with potatoes and some fucking corn.
I make gravy of your juice.

McPherson Sq.

Get in my mouth hamburger
Your so delicately mashed
So I can taste your fat and blood

Metro Center

Green Beans are for fags, as my Mother would say
So I chop them small, so I still feel straight when I eat them

Federal Triangle

All communists praise the embalmed corpse of Lenin.
And eat pizza.
But commies use goat cheese.
Not mozzarella.


C'mon, eat my taco, you silly bitch.
Put hot sauce on that shit.
Lettuce, cheese, fuck yeah.

L'Efant Plaza

I went to France, once.
In my dreams.
I had powdered cakes and watered down wine.
Then and only then was I able to see the French, as before, they were invisible.

Federal Center SW

Oh, cheese, you vile mistress.
I will conquer the Mongols for you.
They are begging for it anyway.

Capitol South

I put NyQuil in my orange juice in the morning so I can live my dreams during work.
Occasionally I drool on the keyboards, but they are shit, anyway.

Eastern Market

Squash, Rhubarb, Cabbage.
These are all things a rich man carries in his knapsack while crossing the great deserts of Arabia.

Potomac Ave.

Little fishes, you have no central nervous system.
Which makes stabbing you with my trident all the less meaningful.
Lie to me, fishes, and scream in pain.
You are delicious fried and dipped in tar-tar sauce.

Stadium Armory

Nachos make a man...a man.
Melted cheese.
Boys cannot handle jalapenos until their balls have dropped and grown large.

Benning Road

Splattered green, flat and explosions on my plate.
Peas...I have vanquished you!!!

Addison Road

Oh, yes, flower up you uppity bloom of cauliflower.
Nourish my body...Great!
I am SO fucking thankful for your vitamins. Hooray.
You snide vegetable, you posh little plant.
Feel good about yourself.
Feel good about stealing jobs from broccoli.

Capitol Heights

What wonders lie stuck to the sides of my old repulsive microwave?
What stories could be told by burnt spaghetti sauce and old Ramen Noodles?
Those few who made the escape, only to perish in the radiated hell of my kitchen appliance.

Morgan Blvd.

Oh, worthless corn.
You do nothing for me.
Our affair was brief.
But you knew it, and so did I.
Now get out.
There is cab fare on the breakfast nook.


Little bits of food, I floss you from your temporary home.
I spit you in my drain.
My gums bleed in grief, but are quickly sanitized with Target brand mouthwash and a stern talking to.

Largo (Return)

What magic box can cook my bread so perfectly, to make it so warm that the butter melt immediately?
Toaster, what the fuck would I do without you?
Ignore those who say "Use a broiler".
Broilers are bullshit.

Morgan Blvd (Return)

Refrigerator, you squeaky, clunky, metal, old moldy box.
Keep my ice cream frozen and my Kool-Aid cold, and keep your mouth shut.

Addison Blvd (Return)

I put my stick of butter in you, butter dish.
Hold those melted juices.
Firm them up in the cold, cold refrigerator.

Capitol Heights

Stir, pour, on, off, on, off, on...done.
Blender of breakfast, grind up though naughty strawberries.

Benning Road (Return)

My dull knife.

Cut, cut, cut, cut, fuck, cut, cut, cut, fuck, fuck, cut, shit! shit, damnit! fuck, cut, cut.

Stadium Armory (Return)

How the neighbors will bow when they behold my mighty dishwasher!
8 cycles, and it warms dishes.
Those peasants will beg to wash their dishes in my kitchen, but I will scoff at them.
Scoff, I say!

Potomac Ave


Capitol South (Return)

Where art thou, magical machines?
Of which dreams, and sliders and 1 chop coleslaws are made?

L'Efant Plaza (Return)

Heated to a mushy texture, your steamy insides scald my mouth!
Your grade D meat churns the acids of my stomach.
But I am drunk, and Hot Pockets are delicious when I am drunk.

Smithsonian (Return)

Given as a wedding gift, you are worthless to me, salad bowl.
You are giant and wooden.
I cannot eat that much salad.

1 comment:

Joshua said...

This is madness. Uninhibited insanity. But remarkably effective at making me hungry for some F-ing corn. Ha! You are missed.