THIS IS A POEM ABOUT PICKLING RADISHES 6.15.17

6.15.17

I pity pickled vegetables.

They had no choice in the matter.

Likewise

neutered dogs

and walls that must display

whatever vile things

we adorn them with.

I know what you’re thinking:

yes.

That picture of you

is in the same place it was

when you left,

on the wall near the door

 

and I haven’t removed it

because I like it,

plain and simple,

it brings the room together

while also ruining my life.

I know what you’re thinking:

that I’m stoned.

You’re right, I am,

and I’m writing this

while pickling radishes.


Written at 11:49 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA. 

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