This Poem Had a Title, But I forgot It...

Cooking oil Three 8 oz steaks Tupperware and paper plates Bean dip (seven layers) Season three of “Everybody Loves Raymond” Kotex pads (not mine) A hardcover copy of Fifty Shades of Grey (mine) Two gallons of milk, a bucket, a mop, and something to clean Six pack of Snapple and a two-liter bottle of apathetic indifference A sack of false hope (family-sized) Roll on deodorant Roll on sincerity and a box of edgy personality Halloween candy (not really, but it’s a good excuse right?) A plastic stress relief head that screams “relax” in the voice of Jerry Seinfeld Arizona iced tea and tortilla chips That was my shopping list It changes, growing shorter, longer, more varied: Depending on estimations of the coming days But That’s just what they are: Estimations I see myself as full of holes Cracks and crevices that, due to the erosive nature of everyday life, grow wider Sometimes I lose things Often Things that aren’t nailed down Names Upcoming events I remember dead people pretty well It’s the present: what looms ahead, that slips I don’t wanna sound preachy, but Whatever happened to “groovy?” I’m told it was the nineties, but now I’m not sure Back to holes, holes in primal reaction In the event of a sudden absence of rational thought does the brain panic? I’m not talking about conscious thought, But rather its hulking inbred cousin from the deep-south Say pumping blood became overrated Food for thought When I was younger I would pretend that reality had a stroke I would wander, Rollin’ High Up in the mountains with my spider buds Sitting on the trampoline at midnight In the snow I told my sister: “Bigfoot is more afraid of you than you, him” She still doesn’t believe me It’s amazing What’cha remember, and what’cha don’t What gets nailed down up there And what slithers away Elementary School, for example All I got’s making a birdhouse, A book about a personified cat and the child who loved him This really nice young man who attempted to kiss me And the pretty girl who sat behind me in Mr. Larson’s class She always wore the same sky-blue nail polish It’s a bitch, the things you remember My earliest is of my first tangible possession A plush model of the human stomach my mother gave me One hell of a toy, I assure you Have you ever noticed that you only remember the really fucked-up dreams? Well at least I do The good dreams are always the ones that escape I mean is it really too much to ask? To remember the dream you have to clean up after? I see myself as full of holes Trivia stays Meaningful things leave Now if you excuse me I need to go write next week’s list.