Pizza. A Poem.

Last night I did Eric Dadourian’s delightful poetry show, The Dope Poet’s Society at The Improv Lab in Hollywood. I read a super sincere poem I wrote about pizza. This is it.

Pizza.

A piece of pizza.

I find peace, in pizza.

The reckless sunburns of youth

ebb and flow with the skinned knees of dusty softball games,

babes in their first uniforms,

forging first friendships in grass stained cleats & oversized gloves,

huddled around their first win’s spoils of hot pepperoni.

Pizza, is victory.

Mom hates to cook.

The kitchen feels like prison,

Dogs are meant to be domesticated, not women.

Leftovers of meals no one enjoyed the first time.

Hard to tell which is staler, the conversation or the fish sticks?

An argument seems inevitable, but then -

We can all have what we want tonight.

Everything, no pineapple, to the rescue.

Pizza, is escape.

Meat lover, vegetarian, deep dish, thin crust…

Olive, anchovy, bacon, spinach, ham, broccoli?

Why the fuck not?

Order just cheese for a group of people and you’re a communist.

Pizza, is personal expression.

Heartbreak only comes three ways.

Death, betrayal or distance.

Somewhere between the realization & the acceptance of these three,

We try to comfort each other,

But people are still just shells hugging shells,

And wounded animals need time alone.

As a flame in darkness turns dough to bread,

Stuffed crust with peppers fills the animal’s void.

Pizza, is a secret confidant.

The Big Apple, The Windy City -

Metropolises known for their skyscrapers…

And for their pies.

Los Angeles has no famous pie -

How could there be, when all of her citizens strive to be just as famous as a New York slice?

Pizza is humility.

Less pizza in my life in The City of Angels.

But never none.

And every bite a reminder

That while the first friends are far away,

And no one gets thrown in the pool anymore without checking their pockets for iphones first…

There are new friends with all kinds of firsts to be had.

And Mom still doesn’t cook if she doesn’t feel like it.

And the old emotions will come & go, just like the delivery driver.

Pizza.

A piece of pizza.

I find peace, in pizza.

But these, these are the salad days.

Brandie's Ramblie's

Pizza. A Poem.

Notes