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Guest Poet Ashley Cook

El Retiro

The Earth is like a stale biscuit
With crumbs as big as my lover
His breath, saliva, and teeth
Are like old mayonnaise.

The quilt patched warmth,
Screaming, as we smell for a dream.

The end of March
We lie near the tailgate
Of a bed with music,
El Retiro Park, near the beach,
California, with no parking,
Between ten and six.

His mouth tastes like coconut.
Sometimes we can park between ten and six,
Avoiding a little yellow ticket,
The library closes before sundown.

Tom Waits stares afar with a black umbrella
And trench coat that whistles, Hold On,
Double block of tunes play a slow beat
With the tapping of his fingers
Come On Up to the House.

Because we eat the crumbs of the Earth,
We are able to eat the ghosts on our plate.
Ultimately, Theoretically, blah, blah, blah.

His blank stare is piercing my thoughts,
I write and he lies in bed by midnight,
And never leaves the fetal position until noon,
This morning he woke and ran a marathon.

Pookie Bear stares and stares with laundry to do,
We will eventually see the sun, in the middle of the sky.
Sandpaper bed sheets and watery pillows,
Are less the life, I wanted it to be.

The stereo on full blast, the commercials are calming,
I'll buy it, if you sell it, La Vita E Bella!
We walk up the stairs of this dream and knock on the door,
A light flickers a middle finger into darkness,
One lump crumb answers the beat of our thirsty souls,
With nothing but an encouraging grin and glass of wine.

May, 2002

Ashley Cook's questions:

I really like this one and am wondering if anything is confusing like pronouns?

Is it just words blabbed onto paper, or does the reader get a certain feeling from this piece?

I want my reader to connect with this poem as well as feel a little piece of my life.

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