Tomatoes (A Poem)

In honor of my home state of Washington legalizing human composting I dug up (hahaha) an old poem where I consider the alternative to burial or cremation, although I didn’t know it was a thing at the time I certainly was intrigued by the idea and the beauty it holds in it.

https://www.recompose.life/

or https://crosscut.com/2019/05/dust-dirt-human-composting-coming-wa


If an heirloom tomato were

a body part,

might it be a kidney.

Quartered and sliced

aspirating a fine mist

seeds and juice spill

and soak into the cutting board.

A cherry tomato would be an eyeball,

of course.

The only difference between

the old me, listening to Led Zeppelin III

and me listening now,

is that I now have the wisdom to not

try to hit the high notes.

Restraint.

An over-ripened Roma

might be a thyroid gland,

or boiled and peeled it

becomes a swollen lymph node.

Slices become columns,

now juice and seeds are puddling,

columns into squares.

Of course the Beefsteak would be

the typical enlarged American heart.

Maybe when I die I could be composted

by the state, then They could sell me to

gardeners across the region.

My final act of charity.

Twisted Pine

You are the twisted pine shaped by salty sea winds and held down by swollen knuckles. sitting on the precipice above the waves which belt out ceaseless foamy crescendos spilling into craggly shores. soaked up by the deserts of eyes and you’re only participation is the attention it takes to let growth unfold, line after line, swells and breaks, you increasingly realize your part in the whole is merely to listen.

Working Furnace

cently we had an HVAC technician come out to look at our furnace. It has been down for a few years, for various reasons we’ve never been able to have it fixed, or looked at. He was able to get it up and running, but did confirm our fears that it wouldn’t last long and that he had been out replacing others in our complex, it’s just too old, and we would soon need to replace it. He didn’t charge for the service call which was awesome and over the past few days our house has been a little bit warmer. Which led me to write:

During morning piss

heard the most wonderful sound

working furnace -ah!

Walking Through

Walking the narrow sidewalks cobbled for immigrants of the 1930s

under grayscale constantly moving towards the horizon

past houses framed for the laborers in the ’50s

chain link fences put up to keep out the drugs of the ’70s and ’80s

under trees sprouted a hundred years befor

pushing my way through decades of History

with a wall of ideas around my head to keep out the ideals of the dead.