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2 poems by Julia Rose Lewis

5/11/2016

2 Comments

 

We, Our Perishable Food

The first summer I lived in Iowa it was so hot I fantasized about climbing into the refrigerator.  
So much corn dried up and died.  Two years later, I was listening to a radio station in Indiana called Korn!  It was the first time I had ever heard someone with a New Zealand accent sing along to country music.  When we got off the highway for dinner, our waitress confused vegetarian with lesbian.  We counted water towers on the drive back to Iowa City.  If you put a physicist and a biologist in a car together for nine hours, then they will find something to quantify.  For the first time, I’m not summering in the midwest.  Now does not one sick hen sound like one second?  Book alive like a bird, they had to kill five million chickens on a farm in north western Iowa because of bird flu.  These hens are little more than one percent of the nation’s egg layers, yet there may consequences the Iowa Poultry Association Executive Director said.  Which came first the chicken or the egg?

Which came first the ribosome or the protein?  
​





Something wilder than Iowa

​
                would be a tall experiment.        You are on a pear.        We, our perishable food, refrigerators white, like eggshells protect.        After the ford model T was introduced, refrigerators cost more than cars for many years.        On machines and pollution, think of the air, think of the increasing concentration of carbon monoxide before the two-way catalytic converters created carbon dioxide.        A refrigerator is not a Faraday cage, but a microwave is.        Physical chemists accidentally melted chocolate bars with microwaves in the laboratory.        Books taste like chicken: bone white, fat light, muscle is surprising me.        To sing the incubator more effective for bacterial growth, because those plasmids slow them down.        The rhyme, the White was laboratory and mentor, and the white refrigerator.        The experiment time, I’m not falling and fully grown yet planning.        Please said.  




Julia Rose Lewis is poet in residence of the archeology department University of Wales Trinity St David.   She lives on Nantucket Island and is a member of the Moors Poetry Collective.  Her poems have appeared in their anthologies, Firefly, 3am Magazine, and Backlash.  
2 Comments
Matte Blk link
8/29/2020 05:42:32 pm

HEAR YE! O HEAR YE!!
I hereby giveth unto thee, my
just and worthy liege, me
fruitfull, zealous inebriation
to do with whot thou shalt:

Im so ready to die now
(Im a Near Death Experiencer):
to live! love! exponentially!
to VitSee-harmony for eternity!!
to RITE with a passion 999×999+
nonillion novels in ♡OUR♡
exalted, extravagant excess!!!

Are you? If you aint, miss gorgeous,
why donchoo make like a choochoo
and high-tail it into Seventh-Heaven
so we can eternally party-hardy, girl:

Our lit 45-caliber-blogOramma speaks
volumes IF ya gotta lotta primordial
moxie as in: 'dunno. dijoo wannum?
gotta hooo gobba lotta nada unless
youse believe' ...
(skuze d’New Joisey axxent).

http://TurnOrBernie.blogspot.com

Reply
Matte Blk link
4/3/2022 08:20:45 am

Heads-up, girl:
Take your first finger and hold
it close to your indelible thumb;
the spaceNbetween is how long
our lives are - then comes eternity:
Seventh-Heaven or Abyss o'Misery
(yes, dear, Purgatory is true as
the Son Shining upon humanity).
○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○
And who decides which realm?
WEE do! Ourselves! And our eyes!
...according to the deeds WEE have
accomplished in our WEE lifetime!
☆☆☆ nrg2xtc.blogspot.com ☆☆☆
I'm a true, Near Death Experiencer.
---> God Bless You.
---> I'll pray for you.
---> God ain't a religion;
God's a relationship.

Reply



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