I'm cleaning off my shelves in my room and I found a packet of Pizza Hut parmesan, romano & hard grating cheese blend, very dusty, with the corner bent. I haven't cleaned off my shelves in a little over a year, since I got them at the Container Store. Should I keep the packet?
I love to clean with steam clean. I do it every week. I guess you'd call me germophobe, along with steaming geek. I love the vapor swirling, a foggy mist that cleans. I'll kill the germs no better way, by suds or soapy means. I've got a dozen nozzles, each for every chore. From nooks and crooks and walls and shelves, please deign me "Cleaning Whore."
It's a way to get some exercise. I have to reach and bend. Up and down, left and right, to and fro I wend. The ladder is made for climbing, the cloth is meant to dry. My voice is made for groaning and my lungs to heave a sigh. I spend some time just looking. I'm please with it so far. Perhaps some day I'll find a way to keep it in a jar.
I didn't think I wath a poet, or piano player, either. Thome thingth you don't dithern until you are a geether. If you loothe your teeth and mutht invent a different way to thay thingth, jutht thtick your tongue up where your teeth would uthed to make a thee thing.
Stephanopolous has five syllables in it. And Mississippi.
I steamed the toilet.
And layered rose petals there
in the water bowl.
Pete doesn't like loud sounds.
Grinding, screaming, squeaking noise.
Pete runs out the door.
philosophical
can be silly if you see
the hidden meaning
You don't want my help.
You think you know everything.
You can kiss my ass.
One day I loved you.
The next day I fell in love.
This is the third day.
I drank 7-Up.
Then I let out a big belch.
I said, "Excuse me."
Helicopter flew.
Machine gun bullets rained down.
I was hit running.
The ice is melting.
The 7-Up is flattened.
I'm not thirsty now.
You could write your life.
It could all be in haiku.
Then you could drink beer.
