Sta.sh
I wish I could pickle memories.
Toss them into a transparent jar,
Hear the Ker plunk as they hit a sea of vinegar,
That bitter pickler.
I could turn cucumbers
Into squishy varieties,
And, when I feel the need,
Reach my hand into said jar
And retrieve a tangible face,
Bite slowly into its slimy skin
While a cascade of lime-green juice
falls down my jaw.
I could hear the crunch,
Feel the bitter particles bounce of my acrobatic tongue
And recall odds and ends
I dared not recall before,
But feel the torturous need to, now.
I would be the Pickle Pauper,
You’d be my distorted squash.
Sitting in the confines of a faceless jar
On my generic shelf
Next to other anonymous containers.
I’d attach labels to the glass to make you individualized,
Creating a wall of pickled options to sift through.
Spinning around blindfolded,
Arm extended,
Finger pointing,
“Eenie meenie miney mo”
Spewing out of my angelic lips,
A sort of anticipation brewing
While I untie my blindfold,
Afraid to see what jar the fates have chosen for me.
And the jars and I could go on like this
As more jars fill my memory room,
Continuing our children’s game,
Giggling when the arms of the clock finally stop
And a jewel coated bird pops out of a trap door.
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If this were being read live in a smoky coffeehouse, I'd be snapping my fingers in appreciation and calling out: "Crazy, man, crazy!"
In the beat-nik poetry culture, "Crazy" was actually the highest compliment. It meant that folks thought your poem was really good.