Ziniicecream at Old Poetry

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what comes of this at allpoetry
dripping down / my chin / high fructose corn syrup / I swallow. / my fingers in retractable knots / hips bended / to the waist of Calgary / the high cicada / thrust of a shrill / egalitarian.
February at storywrite
February, she looked sullen, cheeks a little a bit indrawn from smelling his skin. He stuttered a bit, half-baked words gutting any hopes of her clam chowder warming up.

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on I am a sculptor, a molder of form by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi, on January 20, 2005
I loved this. I wonder how the rhyme scheme worked in Arabic--or did Rumi write in Turkish? I am not sure what language he wrote in.

The imagery is so lovely as the title. Rumi makes my heart melt.
on Rosalie's Good Eats Cafe by Sheldon Allan Silverstein, on October 3, 2003
These stanzas are hilarious:

There's the weight lifter there in his black skintight T-shirt,
He's pickin' his teeth with the check.
He coughs now and then until somebody looks,
Then he casually flexes his pecs.
He smiles at the curly-haired, apple-cheeked sailor
And the sailor, he quick turns away.
We take our best shot here at two in the mornin'
At Rosalie's Good Eats Café.

The kitchen-supply salesman, he's tellin' Rosie
Her ol' steel deep fryer is shot
And everyone laughs as she mimics Mae West
'N' says, "Big boy, my fryer is still plenty hot."
Then the salesman says, "Rosie, that's pretty damn good,
But ain't you lots older than Mae?"
A laugh a damn minute, at two in the mornin'
At Rosalie's Good Eats Café.

However I don't understand this line:
So maybe tomorrow he'll buy some Lavoris (what is Lavoris...I'll look it up too)

This poem inspires me to write a piece about the bus culture on public buses. Nobody hardly ever talks on a bus; but it seems like everyone is trying to figure out what each other is thinking. There's always the shifty eyes that give it away. Thanks for submitting this.