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The Kettle and The Hearth

Tea Time:

I could drink green curry
like water from your lips,
awash in a verdant haze.
Longing to never wake-
to never surrender this
Becoming-Bliss.
My will has dissolved into
the finest soma
and all my dreams becoming
the favored liqueur of the Gods.

The Ashes:

I spoon jam sparingly
onto a piece of toast
hoping to add moisture
to this texture of cardboard.
All I know is that if this
famine does not end soon
there will be nothing left
except a spoon, an empty jar of jam
and a sheet of cardboard.

 

Hunter Hall

gloriaHunter Hall’s a ferocious poet seen late last century lurking black-hooded about the rainy streets of Seattle. Reading Deleuze&Guattari while slinging brutal mochas, channeling serpents and raw riot through her spoken-word performances, she now lurks somewhere in the Salish Sea, plotting revolution while baking for her children.

2 Comments »

  1. Sensuous and evocative. I love the textures, soft then jarring at the end (no pun intended). Nice Swanson avatar, too. 🙂

    Like

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