consuelacooks

cooking, poetry, and unapologetic intense moments in a life

Category: dirty

12:06 AM, Irma, Fire and Verona.

It’s 12:06 Am and there are quiet hours at Gatito Vito’s salon except
there is no quiet to be had, but vague ethnicity and troubled
dreamers wondering where supper is next week and where the
next handshake will emerge in this orange drowned town north of Mississip-

And fire burns and ash churns and so many foxes and hawks find silence
in cubbyholes and sand traps made for scorpions but now they house
refugees of fur and far and hope and wet and the new world in spades
and Trump(s) and storms, cataclysms, conundrums, holes of comfort.

There are not enough water bottles to sell, enough aid, not enough
purifiers, too many diapers to hold feces, piss of fleeing babes,
not enough gas to fuel the flying multitudes. It is dangerous, you know.
The storm will come, you know. It is here. IT IS PRESENT. It’s now the

bedfellow you needed to look in the eye, only the electric is gone and
the water is red with cruiser escapes filmed for the pleasure of
so many internet wanderers, and they know their time is limited, so
precious this time they have to bear witness to it all, bone and marrow,

and we write each others’ books, we do. Like some kind of Victorian
journalist, bearded and boheme. Finding the chinks, the holes. and
calling it all for scandal. It’s a business, these days, the scandal.
it’s all we can do to keep up, to sleep and strum, to remain upright and

here we are, at the cusp of eternity wondering who we can be in the wake of it
all, is all, is some, and we love each other don’t we? Don’t we? Or rather yet,
Do we hope for the moment we understand melody again? Do we pine to wake
and know that we have become enough, and the screen is safe to close?

Your body surges with the cancer, looking for a sweet spot, and you, warrior, let it
know the eye is near, and it will have to stay the interest until Tuesday. You
smooth tiny Evan’s hair with promise as you board windows, knowing the wind
cannot rival this year, this trial, this manifest of scars. It is a day, a week of

wheat from chafe, light from stark, wonder from womb, and tender lullabies.

 

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I would love to, OR, how we might behold.

III
a guitar pick and a romp for the black cat
3 bands later it was still moving and
I could feel the calm start to seep in
We can rest here

(and the drummer’s mouth is open because he’s pounding, the guitar player broke his third string, the microphone is just receiving screams because after so many songs what is there to do but scream)

I can’t hear anything
and planets surge forward
in this two-horse town of trees
and all those barren bodies look in frenzy for the tonight in the ones next to them, across from them, upstairs from them, down the bar…
but the pounding is still ferocious
and how can they ignore
oh the best
part
when all the drinks bought make the guys on stage a little reckless and
shit gets louder, even
and each word is a prayer said over
sinewy arms, ringed fingers, nicotine lips…

And that fateful moment
“Thank you, Goodnight”
the white light blast our eyes
making women wish waterproof was for real
making stagger a zip code
making cabs chariots
making the cold night a question mark for the leftover
the lonely
the lascivious

the cold slaps me
and on nights like last night
I start running fast into the black
into the cold
splitting it in two
with The Queen is Dead across my chest
just to feel the blood pound into my face

I know it’ll come again because
the Pour house is there, the Lincoln there
and so many to see
and so many nights to
welcome
this breakneck, lovely cold splitting Midnight.

(when we replace the thought of us with birds, and release us into clouds that eat us whole, spitting out the seeds)
There’s a novelty to breathing
Held fast tight fat pockets grasping inside hand reaching
Angelwhere.
I wished you would hold me
Just for seconds of course
I can’t stay the course
I gotta bang-bang all over my psyche and talk future like
Wanting for ambition to take hold
Waiting for the wings to melt
I gotta slam into dem bones I see
In my dreams, vain, glorious
Wanting for a darker knight, a darker fight
A false fevering fleshed out soldier
Wanting more of that light, six shooters bright
But it just gets colder
Those sheets just get colder,
that sunbeam where you were gets colder.
That hotel room, that coffee those moments
Like smoke, get colder
A double A
double offering, the sky,  sucked us right in.
Changeling children and
Madly doting lovers reminded me that I could laugh.
For extra comfort I held my own hand.
And the blue up high had a circling bird
Tethered to Jehovah and the angels it flew circle wise into darker
Tree ridden areas for rest.
And I got a letter from Jehovah today.
Those chain letters that
piece together all of the unknowns

II
Whether I be chicken, deviant, cartoon mug or frost
I am shrouded in hair, black
guarded by feet, convex
healed by the same means,
warmed and cooled by the same summer and wisher
I can’t help but think that those rocks in
Virginia’s pockets each had a weight of their own
One, four pounds, one twenty
Each girded in express melancholy

I
Feel ten degrees warmer thinking of you
Gentility in approach
Fingers on the underside of my chin
Hands grasping lower back for fear of slipping
Perspiration lining the runway of spine and hip
Each freckle accounted for
Triple Decker sunshine candy girl has five feet
Of surging words for apathetic ears
I miss that room where boys dance on heads,
girls shake words from a stone
Jesus freaks with crayons pattern stigmatic guitar rifts
And Queen of nightlife moves through the room like some silver
Beauty ghost with eyes that stop trains
And hands that can hold a child with no fear
So yeah, I’ll spout them, three and with heart
I’ve run out of what calms the race, so we’ll see if
Grass will grow on faster ground
On hands made of war, and breath composed of brown eyes, wandering
Consumption just doesn’t work, but I keep it up despite
Monster premonitions and tighter belts

Angel come, come and fit fever on your wing
Angel run your hand through my eyes and pull out the softer girl
With hair of silk
thighs of green

thoughts of pounding hooves.

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.

Mourning wear or I want to eat you alive.

Image

 

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.

And flowers in her hair…

” I think I need to say to you that your aggressive nature when it comes to Ginger is powerful.”

-workshop participant.

I know there are a lot of extraordinary people out there who don’t choose to dumb things down or be careful with truths. I’d like to think the folks I surround myself with these days and in days past don’t care for that much either. We would all rather feel or taste or live extremely. Every kitchen I’ve cooked in or stage I’ve been on or actors I’ve directed or love affair I’ve entrenched myself in has changed me. It seems as if things won’t change much in that arena. Not at all.

Recent culinary efforts:

Fire soup: Roasted red peppers stuffed with garlic cloves and basil, drenched in lemon. Wait until they are black. Throw in simmer pot with five large diced onions and a ton of chipoltle. Throw in the Cuisinart. Serve (preferably) with grated asiago. By the way- Asiago spellchecks as Iago. That makes me happy.

Spicy Cilantro, Tomato and Mozzarella Quesadilla with Spicy Bean dip. Bean dip- Black beans, Garlic, Cilantro (fresh), Basil, Cumin, Chiopoltle powder. Black Pepper. Salt.

Easy Pico- Diced Onions, Diced Tomatoes, Cilantro (Fresh), Salt, Pepper, a bit of Apple Cider Vinegar, Cumin, Parsley, Chipoltle, Jalapenos (If you are not deathly allergic to them as I am)

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Loch Ness Pork Loin: Two whole pork loins, trim the fat off and leave a little and then put fatty side down. Cut a divet in the middle of each about an inch. Cuisinart a Ton of Cilantro, Basil, Thyme, Maple Syrup, Olive Oil, Salt, Cumin and Lime and then pour first into the divet and then a generous coating on the rest. Stick a garlic clove in every 2 inches (Into the divet), sprinkle with bacon bits. 450 for 10 minutes, then 350 for 40. Let rest (It will be rare) keep in an oven at 250 for 20 minutes. It will be prefect. Moist and yummy.

I have to mention Caitlin’s Cilantro and Cheddar biscuits that adorned and fulfilled the Mexican meal and also her Cinnamon cheesecake which literally made me cry. Real tears. Maybe it was the push to get a Mexican feast of Tacos, Quesadillas, 2 Soups, Mex Veggies, Biscuits, and cheesecake (all from scratch mind you) ready for 80, but I don’t think so. I think it was the cheesecake.

I’m working on a Cassius speech for auditions. And also Juliet. Neither of them are careful with words. I’m pretty happy about that. I am trying to

a. Figure out what I want to do this summer

b. Move into a new apartment

c. Fall out of love

d. Cook for 80 in a spontaneous and beautiful understanding way

e. get ready for Sweeny Todd

f. Get ready to see twenty old friends who have known me forever and have seen me at my worst for the first time in two years

g. Go on a well deserved road trip with a cool girl

h. Take care of my body and try and get over this damn flu

i. Not fall into my pattern of believing I’m not enough.

j. still be in love with the world

That about sums it up.

I’m a lucky girl.

I love you.

Good Night.

Big Girl Undies

” Your Chili was so good I don’t know whether to kiss you or slap you in the face to restore order to the world.”

-Gluten Free guy in the Month long Intensive on his second bowl of Cincinnati Chili

In brief. Comfort food aplenty. Spaghetti and Meatballs, sauteed Kale, Lime and Cilantro Chicken, yada yada yada….

But the Chili was good. Yes it was. Sweet and delish.

So today was full of text messages I wish I could take back and some I want to save because they are that funny, but mostly I ran from that sad bus all day. There didn’t seem to be a song I could play, a person I could talk to, a food I could eat, or a picture I could love enough to shake these stupid blues. This 48 hour thing is horse shit. I guess you just miss someone until you don’t. And then what? But I am learning the cyclical nature of the whole beast. It only ever lasts half an hour. Ride it out and it will move through, I found.

Today was a myriad of musical offerings. In the kitch, I mean. Ice Cube, Eminem, Aphex Twin, Trampled By Turtles, Skynard, Sex Pistols, Amy Grant, Glee, Janet Jackson, Butthole Surfers, etc. It never really gets boring.

Today because of my cooking I was proposed to three times and propositioned twice and winked at a few times. I like the winks the best. The redhead just waves. Actually that is the best. The waving. Freckles around the eyes get me every time.

Every time.

It’s really time to put on big girl undies and quit this boo-hoo stuff. I am really lucky. I have awesome comrades and even better besties. I have a great fam and I love to have fun. Too much. All the time. I’m good at things and I’m easy on the eyes.

Applying big girl undies? Now.

Maybe I should just go on that date. Maybe I just need to be treated to something.

Tomorrow should be an interesting day of cooking. Boss man leaves early and it is us! Just us! Little Sous Chef and her cohorts. We will rock it. We will make Chef Ron proud.

And we will sing and have fun and say tremendously dirty things to each other.

Because that’s how we roll at Larry Hall Kitch.Image

“What do I do when they all fade?”, she said. ” Do I imagine them there or do I forget?”
She said… ” Each one was a deliberate moment of touchingnd each was a promise.” 
She said…” Each is a hand print of eloquent love, of raw want, and of maps to new worlds.”
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