consuelacooks

cooking, poetry, and unapologetic intense moments in a life

Category: Cupid

1049, and ultra marathons

In imagining the flowers

(The ones beneath pearly wan winter)

replete with pregnant universal cogitation

A signal starts in the belly,

past the tiny contenting fingerprints

etched in the hips (they seem so discreetly delicious)

-a solemn supper of the sweet lyrical grace of the feminine

-a banquet welcoming attentive natal secrets

-an eve of nectarous exchanges

I wanted to eat you like a whole peach, pit and all,

pull the sorrows out, name and number them

for Egypt, Afric, Abyss.

I wanted to slide sideways into that sadness and ride it to light.

 

 

Simple, simple, slow, she said.

I want you to say my name.

 

 

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Summer’s End or Chicken Shit 101

It is really so simple, she said

Light down the spine,

name and number each bone

make a fantastic inventory.

Use descriptive language when searching for skin, hair

wrap each finger carefully in curls

(the slightest tug will do for now)

Ask short questions pertaining to the weight of winks

Itemize the sighs, bottle, and preserve.

Linger in the kisses a moment too long,

paying close attention to the way the eyes look while closed- just after.

Document.

Rest on the slight curve of the hip, apply pressure with fingertips. Make the slightest mark.

Index all of the whispers, separating night from day whispers.

Backlog each moment we speak of love.

Season is fickle.

Words and wild remain un-categorized,

lovely, longing and without requite.

I will paint this, sing it. And forget.

See you each day, (And your graceful peasant eyes)

referring to the record

of our almost (surrender) affair.

WARNING! MELANCHOLIC MUSINGS! or Let’s just read the funny papers

I have terribly neglectful of this blog. I think it is the general lack of mindfulness I’ve been experiencing. The Berkshires beat on like beautiful retired war heroes yawning at the sky and my snow peas reach for that sky. There is a melancholic air to all and as I am like every other human I am trying to unpack the story.

So many bad dates. So many nights without sleep. A summer that gallops apace without me at the company where I work. A summer that isn’t at all what I thought it would be at the other work. It’s been over a month since my dear friend passed and a little over a month until another one marries. I turn 40 in 27 days. Is this where most are at this juncture? I would love to know if it is.

My Mom always asked why I did things the hard way. Even without purpose. Leaving home early, choosing to wait on marriage, choosing an impossible field to work in, choosing impossible places to live, being on the road living in a tent for so long, having such a long period of being so sick, and fighting for what I believe in as opposed to watching injustice happen (even if I never live to actually see results for that fight) are the things she doesn’t understand about me and also the things she respects the most.

Sometimes, not most- but sometimes I tire of it.

And then sometimes it becomes the song I sing.

And sometimes, just sometimes on a bleak and beautiful cool Berkshire morning like this as the fan hums and the cat perches in the window and there is stillness and quiet– at these times- at this time- I just want to read the newspaper with someone and sigh in the knowledge that I have a partner in crime- and rest easy in the knowledge that this partner will not now or any time for the rest of our time need or want to go anywhere else.

Can I have both? Certainly. I think. As I get older I am underwhelmed by wooing antics and proclamations of obsessive love. With so much experience in love comes a great responsibility to be patient while the other party meanders like a Cocker Spaniel puppy through their feeling world. Recklessly banging around and pawing and overturning food bowls in the name of excitement. What I need is a great long beautiful sophisticated Great Dane. One who knows who he is. One who is completely fine with the space he takes up in the world. One who is OK with my days of Saint Bernard and my days of Chihuahua.

But I digress. Adventures continue. Love will continue. Seasons will pound on in fours and August will come and go and I will enter in to my fifth decade.

I laugh every day out loud and don’t think for a moment that I take that for granted.

I am just missing that puzzle piece. That one little one that becomes the priority.

Henry Rollins says this perfectly-

“I want a soul mate who can sit me down, shut me up, tell me ten things I don’t already know, and make me laugh. I don’t care what you look like, just turn me on. And if you can do that, I will follow you on bloody stumps through the snow. I will nibble your mukluks with my own teeth. I will do your windows. I will care about your feelings. Just have something in there.”

And that pretty much sums it up.

 

NOPOMO 13 or God, I want my lobster

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Miles to Go

Each patch of skin
Is inventoried
All the stories that arrive with a touch

Tell all the nasty natal secrets
The preternatural longings, naïve mistakes, wild worldly wisdom
Anomalous wantings

Every inch has a history
They are all named and numbered and filed away
Shoved into memory
Without exception, forever locked
In my bare bones

Most steps I take sing a song of you
And I don’t even know your name.

NAPOMO Nine or Delilah never went to the dance hall

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Secondo Posto

With a shake of hips and a lick of promise
He encased her mouth with dark kisses
The dance hall, a ghost town

Lights dim
He could not tell the difference for once
In tequila haze

Were it not for the daisies painting her black locks
He would not have come to
Not have realized
No memory of Lila would have come
He wouldn’t have walked away from the angelo puttana
She would have fit the bill
She would have served a turn, you know.
But he had to step away. Just for a look.
Then off he went into the night alone.

You see, Delilah only wore
The pure purple
Of crocus lilies
In cappeli neri

She smelled of the freshest beets
Dug from tart earth
Knees, knocked, severe and lovely.
She spoke of God and men, and sweet, sweet babies
(The ones who would miss her after the fever)
She dreamed of Afric, Canaan, and tremendous storms.
She spoke his name in her secrets
And called to him each morning to pray
She was sweeter than a mango kissed with the sun-

And her hands were stained with rain.

Mourning wear or I want to eat you alive.

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I have an invitation. It is pink and unique of all of this.

It grinds blue glass to sand, bone to dust.

It slides all over Africa, India, The Americas.

It names and numbers the blows, the freckles, the sideways glance

that is as long as you are lovely.

It alphabetizes each kiss for country matters

Strange like sea weed it weaves in and out of distrust

manuevering through feckless waters

of your underparts. Your secrets.

The way the light catches your

road-weary cheek on Sunday mornings.

When the sniffles still make you divine.

Three weeks and a hundred or more moments

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A blink is, after all, a cleansing
A kiss, an entry
The holding of a hand, a communion
And the words are history the moment they become.
The moment they arrive on page
And my hands are soaking wet.

Photos to fuel your Cupidity

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As you were….

-Carm

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