Giovanni the Pizza Guy (Pronounce "a" as "uh")



Giovanni,you make a de savory tomato

and de thicka white creamy alfredo

you are a de pizza guy, amor'e

Si', I make a de homemade paste

she's a richer for you taste

and that's a part of my story.

I make a de pizza pie

I make a it to please

you wanna de pepperoni

or you wanna de plain cheese ?

I am a you waiter I take a you order

when you food-she a comes

she make a you mouth water

I make a de perfect pizza

in me you should a trust

you wanna de thicka or de thinna crispy crust?

I can make a spagetti or make a zucchini

butta for you , I make a linguine

I can make a de sauce red

I can make a it white

after you taste-you wanna more bite

I make a de spagetti -she's a made a with love

I cook a real slow you order ahead ;

or you take a to go.

I putta de stuff on de top

I give a you wine or a some pop

Uno momento, will you please

I must a cut a de cheese

I am a you pizza guy to make a you pizza pie

Why must a you stay a at home

when a you can a dine a in a Rome ?

I save a you a table

I tell a you a fable

I fill a you pants

I make a you dance

I make a de sauce thick

I make a de sauce thin

I make a you laugh

I make a you grin !

Si', Please a come a back ; see a Giovanni again!

CHOW FOR NOW, BELLISIMA !

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
I have to admit my weakness,
my inability to control my carnal urges.

I have reached again into the depths
of my cupboard where I have vowed
to never enter with a hungry stomach.

And so the temptation of linguine
and innocent tiny shells
crowded into my head
instead of heavenly angel hair.

I have faith that only you
can absolve me of my sins
and twenty pounds, more or less,
a 10% tithe to my Semolina God.

Then there is the matter of the cheese.
Forgive me, please.

She wore a knee-length skirt. I like them a tad shorter but for some reason this didn’t bug me. Her smile was bright and cheery. Her hair looked soft and came down to the top of her back. She was beautiful and her teeth were white and seemed to pop out of her mouth. I liked her a lot.
We decided we wanted Italian. I told her about Acario’s, a good-quality place up the street, and she said that it sounded fantastic. I opened the door for her and we drove away in my car. It wasn’t the nicest one on the market but it went fast. When we got out on the highway I pushed the accelerator to the floor and weaved between traffic. Some girls get nervous when I do this but she seemed to enjoy it. She looked over at me and grinned with those bright teeth. I don’t remember much except those teeth until we got there. I opened the door for her again and held the small of her back as we walked to the door.
There was some native Italians singing in the corner as we sat down. There was very electric light, only candles and occasional flicker as the kitchen doors swung open and shut. The waiter seemed a natural at his job. Sharp clothes, slicked back hair, good smile that didn’t seem full of contempt. He greeted us in Italian but quickly reverted back to a more common tongue when we began asking about their specials. She ordered Rigatoni a la pesto. I ordered Linguine a la Bolognese. We shared a semi-expensive Merlot that the waiter recommended. It was all very good but neither of us ate much. All I could focus on were her teeth. Their movement up and down when she talked. How badly it felt to see them go when she plucked a single piece of pasta into her mouth. We stayed for two hours. I paid the bill and left a generous tip. The waiter seemed grateful but I suspect he gathered this was our first date.
I did not want the evening to end so I asked her if she wanted to go someplace else. She suggested a park about a fifteen-to-twenty minute drive away. We both got into the car and I sped down the highway, looking over when I could to see the white gems she kept tucked behind her lips flare open as I revved the engine.
When we arrived she took my hand and led me to a lake a small ways away. We walked around the lake for a while until we found a bench. It was old and wooden. It had seen many people’s ***** and absorbed the sounds of children calling to their mothers, old women throwing seeds to the birds, and even the sounds of young lovers hungrily snarled in each other’s faces. She sat down quickly and smiled, looking at the quiet waters first and then into my eyes. Her eyes seemed full of life but I could not help to be drawn slightly lower, to the confines of her red rim.
I leaned in for a kiss but she didn’t lean back at first. I opened my eyes and saw her grinning, her teeth seeming to say, “you don’t think I’m that easy do you?”
“No”, I said in my mind, “no you’re not that easy. You know I want you. You know why I like you. Why I desire you. Fine. I’ll earn it. I’ll make you want it. Just come here. Come here once and I’ll win you over.”
I leaned in all the way and got my lips on hers. She didn’t kiss back. She wanted to see me try. She wanted me to impress her. I did everything I could. I moved my lips up and down. I ran my tongue on hers. I touched her teeth for the first time. It lit a fire in me. I fought harder than I ever had. I tried things I didn’t know could be tried. It felt like hours and I think it might’ve been hours but that one kiss was what did it.
When we separated she was still smirking. It was different this time though. She was satisfied, not disappointed. Approving, not taunting. She agreed. She was going to give me a shot.
We finished out the evening. I dropped her off at her house around 4 in the morning. We barely talked the rest of the night. We didn’t hold-hands. We didn’t kiss. I don’t even remember what we did for all that time, but it was wonderful. It was enough for me just to know those white, gleaming, wonderful teeth were mine.
That date led to another, the one after that to another one, that one to a fourth and so on and so forth. Weeks turned to months. Months to years. It was years and years and years it seemed to me. I couldn’t remember the days of the week, the hour, the month, the year. It was all about the next time I got to see those teeth. Until, one day, in the blink of an eye, it was the last time I got to see them again. The last time, the very time they warped to fangs and breathed fire like a dragon upon a now useless play-thing.

omar loved his guitar.
he took it to pubs, clubs and parks.
he took it on trains, buses, to bathrooms.
he went to bed with it.

omar loved his guitar so much
that he cut a hole in it
so they could make love.
it hurt like hell, but
it was worth it.

three months later, omar
and his guitar, who was called
Vera,
had made love two-hundred and
thirty six times, and a
viscous mess lingered
inside her.

one day the mess
became sentient and it
slid itself out of
Vera's whole and onto
the carpet.
omar came home that day to find it
soaking up the linguine in his pantry.

within days it had doubled in size.
within weeks it had grown soft, wet arms
and legs
and fingernails.
after three weeks its form was fully recognisable:
a guitar, with arms, legs and a head, and
a thin sheet of human skin, stretched over
it.

on it's forehead were the six tuning pegs.
and strings were stretched from its forehead
to its crotch.

one time one of the strings snapped and omar
had to replace it with
one of Vera's.
it had a mouth.
when it was old enough
omar made love to it too.

Big And What Else Is In America

I’ve seen big people in little places
all over the U.S.  I have seen people
break little laws and end up in
the headlines.  I’ve watched old folks
do young things.  Fat do thin stuff.
You have never asked me why
I see such things.  You have sat
in your soft chair thinking it was hard.

Leaders do little things and end up
on the TV.  Cokes look like Pepsis
to no one.  Spaghetti is really linguine.
Bosses beg to want anyone to know
they do everything.  Words become
less syllabic the more you say them.
I have seen yellow look awful
light brownish.  I saw a pineapple

that seemed like a stone.  The President
became a wanton chief.  Casual oinks
became loud moos.  One time, not long
ago, I viewed my wife as a lady who
wanted all my money, had it, and did
nothing except wait and wait until
all my relatives died, and then, spent
it on purses at a mall nearby the estate.

Daniel Gallik
[email protected]
www.dangallik.com

Everyone looks pretty when I take off my glasses.
I blink, rub twin bruises from my nose, eyes
narrowed like the tip of a Dali paintbrush: melting liquid

color on a pregnant canvas. I let pigment run
into faces: heads lumpier than hand-rolled *****
of clay, black mouths rippling like asphalt

puddles, bodies quivering like overcooked
linguine: blurred, as if viewing them without
prescription has stripped and censored

their naked bodies. Sightless, I see
with my ears: watch the tone of their voices, taste
the words that unfurl from the breath

on their tongues. I see with my skin, feel
the atmospheres that slow-boil under their own.
I see from the depth of my stomach: absorb

the energies that hit my belly-button: third eye.
And when I've seen, I replace my glasses

                                                        ­                  blink.

Sight eclipses my vision: stubborn
lines and harsh contrasts framed
in unforgiving black boxes. I think maybe

I'd rather brave the world blind –
nose bare, eyes squinted, and belly grumbling
– if only so I could see with clarity.

I like pasta, you like pasta,  
Twirl it, swirl it, let’s have a blast-a!  
Spaghetti’s long, it dances on my plate,  
With a tasty sauce, it’s simply great!  

Fettuccine’s wide, so creamy and smooth,  
With every bite, it makes me groove.  
Penne’s like tubes, ready to fill,  
With cheese and sauce, it gives a thrill!  

Macaroni’s small, but oh so fun,  
In a cheesy bath, it’s number one!  
Tortellini’s pockets, stuffed with delight,  
A tasty surprise in every bite!  

Linguine’s flat, like a noodle parade,  
With clams and garlic, it’s perfectly made.  
So here’s to pasta, in every way,  
Let’s eat together, hip-hip-hooray! 🍝🎉

Galileo Newton Einstein
all couldn't sing for **** ok

maybe Newton would
have a little too much
Sherry & break into a ditty
& jig; old Galileo inviting
the girl who brought the
milk upstairs to peer through
his long tube...she'd say Mr.
Galileo is so big & giggle
to the girl bringing the eggs

Medusa met Robert Johnson
at the dark crossroads where
Jesus hangs like a scarecrow,
like he ever did that on a muggy
day in old Palestine;

every quantum girl is a million
miracles rolled into one unseen
freckled face; a single quantum
girl is every other & every other
is that one mirroring herself in
the polished gem of science; her
biology something like linguine
primavera;

oh for the day ur science is forgotten
& remembered long after ur poetry is
committed to memory & computers
have become a myth

as a snowball rolling down
the mountain. Every man had
a hand in its making. Every man
packed more on till it grew large

as a boulder. It barely moves from
its weight. Once this snowball was a little
meatball on my plate. And every man
the tomato sauce till I was lost in

indigestion. I was tossed as the linguine
in a polka-dot bikini. I stuffed my face into
every man's line as spaghetti wrapped
around a fork, so entwined and cut short.

Squeezed onto the deck at the back
of a crowded Hammersmith pub,
our wobbling table overlooking the river
barely has enough room for two,
let alone the steak, linguine,
and our bottle of red.

We both take a drink, pausing to watch
a pair of scullers glide down the Thames,
the ripples created by their oars
sparkling in the late evening sun, leaving us
silently jealous of their synchronicity,
their movement so effortless.

I'd arrived early to make sure of a place
and you, with faux fluster, were fashionably late.
You're a writer, a poet, published by Parthian!
Me? A programmer, far more prosaic.
And now with Dutch courage
I said I could do with some inspiration,
but even then the line felt weak.

It could never happen;
there was no connection -
no assonance, consonance, or wild alliteration.
We knew if we rhymed it would be forced and contrived;
we left as separate stanzas
texting with heads fogged by wine.

Years later I bought one of your slim volumes,
curious to see whether a poet might write
about bad dates and nights on the river,
looking for myself between convoluted lines.
Now that I write poems and do my own alliteration
I believe I have finally found inspiration,
so perhaps we did connect after all -
just with a subtler rhyme.

Abbreviated confine
Delegation to and for royal escort in native landscape

Thanks to the BBCNews dailymirror and ctvnews crews

linguine Kendall?

Today in liberties closet
I found her amiss
Shameful weep, hiding as fall
To either, in paced lies