Thursday, July 14, 2016

Shmoo Pizza

My Wife Likens me to a Shmoo

Mutant bugs play Vivaldi 
in Bermuda grass. Weeds 
with runners choke morning 
into night. My wife pokes pins 
into the notes I leave. 
Soy milk is running low. 
Damn the Parcheesi.

Sometimes her face disappears 
into itself, not in shadows 
or light. Sometimes she stuns me.
I am a shmoo for her. 
Pan fried, multiplied. I wear 
a Btfsplk hat and paint
the dirty windows shut. 
Who needs it, the world outside. 
Moonbeam McSwine winks in agreement.

R. Hadley from

My husband does not remind me of a Shmoo but last night we made a pizza without the benefit of a peel, and the strange free-form shape that resulted, evoked memories of the wonderful Shmoo for both of us. Richard complained about the pepperoni because he remembered the Shmoo's legs turned into hams when you needed to eat in a pinch. No ham on this baby. The center was ultra thin and the thick crust or "bones" around the edges were chewy and delicious. I had no complaints. 

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