cooking, poetry, and unapologetic intense moments in a life

Month: June, 2016

Comfortable Chairs

Somewhere in some lost where

sometime with flying rocket shot

thews laying on red ground

some dust laden limb, some family photo submerged in river mud

some permanent smile locked in some rainmaker embrace

some gentlemen strewn in some blast’s throw

some watery eye, untouched, and suddenly doused

by the fog, green, perfect, and ghastly

This is the nighttime of sweet dreams for some.

Playing, loop-wise, tired in the thump

so we apply the wound to the words

and Cassius becomes, sometimes Perdita, Pistol, and Montjoy

they all become sometimes, they do

with throat long and raw, the crooning is all, the keening is all for a day, for a night

I could see their teeth

their tired, their temper,

their Tereus– the wars

Philomela, their wives

The dreamscape, the flight of that crazy nightingale she became

Still muted by the feminine aviation

of the enmity

laid in naked laps

while ‘The Ballad of John and Yoko” played in some transistor
while visions of bed sit-ins danced like sugarplums the bombs rained

while ‘Sweet Caroline” crooned, Hamburger hill swooned sick

in love with the rhetoric of stars and stripes and wiped of all

it ever needed to be a destination for a wedding, you know.

It took and took.

The words hold this, we think. Or no.

When they don’t it’s a drink stiff and

sharp as

any tank treads in Bai-Gai mud.

It sinks them deep like horse hooves in Agincourt dirt.

Divests them of the dignity needed for an officer’s club, but keeps them from

mistakenly seeing Charlie swimming in their sheets and

strangling their sweet wives in their sleep.

We are failing at this.

We forgot, and still they lived.

They slid dow the wall without a blood trail, dis-championed by some bitch in a leotard

Calling them BABY KILLERS

while straddling and anti-aircraft gun

and smiling for the cameras.

And we forgot

They shuffle, talk, eat and respond.
The purgatory is verbose,

the hands deep in the fire


heart pumping under glass, the

breath marching on, so

I think

Let’s call it.

There is no poetry for the walking dead.

There is no song for it.

Only the day I think. At least it was so for him. For them.

Some words to release the valve. A clear Sunset.

Their daughter’s recital.

The Ocean.

A comfortable chair.

Snatches of sleep.

Today is all,

and all.

and all.

A close call, When it comes around.

Peter and Paul, Some Gabri-el, some Port of Call

some mercy, they will not tell you. They will not say.

Some mercy is what

to cut


the taste of the river

in their mouths

when they wake.

Sundays, you know


During the seventh day dawn

I aim, crave, I fancy–

During listless smudgy Sunday mornings

For your hands to

languidly, with some olympic purpose

let the riostat run high and sling some heart fodder

(petulant, posey, tigers and frost)

on my softer shoulder,

but only a little- as Sundays you know, go more slow


I have no big words for the want.

It’s a warmth somewhere between the lower back and the cliff

Sleepy boy clothes

Some ray, some sun-shot, some record scratch and a bottle top promise

to hold the ribs, teeth, and thighs with certainty

on Sundays

to with patience observe

the way we become

the way we are

(for historical and scientific purposes)

as we observe the learning of

the unfurling of

the dots we connect as

hands grasp the meatier parts

books slide in shelves

and gasps become language

in the watchful aurora glare.


Smart Plum

triple beats

grasping stolen stillness

in quiet, I study your hand:

considerable, grand- with spacious reach

seizing language like lunch

curly, coltish, sublime and saporous,

in quiet, I study your jaw

the sideways eye that follows

the forehead forward, fallen,

quenched, and satisfied

by a subtle sonnet.

In quiet, I study your spirit.

Gordian and elaborate, made of sea water and a daughter’s nose

a balance over a tall height,

a mosaic motley of ambrosial sentiments

you, a modern Daedalus,

me, a smart Plum,

smattered with freckles, replete with

elemental fascination, soft pining

wishing for some touch,

wanting more time, or just

another day to write you a poem

another like this

a simple message

from a smart plum.


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