cooking, poetry, and unapologetic intense moments in a life

Category: greeks

How many synonyms are there for affection?

On a Saturday morning, effortless
We were 18 year-old forty somethings.
unmistakable giggles
stories of bloodsheds and watersheds
bedheads, retreads, some reds and blues and my God
the unsaid, the apparent, the ready the resonance.
The path of the empath, the love swelling scenes of midnights and
florida forlorn kids, pounding those warrior days with
what it took to keep breathing amidst the certain uncertainties that
left us breathless, those crazy albatross pains
the colic of adolescence, the way we wove
our secrets into each day
and let them set with humid sun, burning in
shades of city and wreck.

Our sides were burning with want, all of us.
All we knew was heat and water, spaceships and tree swings.
We were bred for this. This. This
shade of indigo. some desire of the unmapped, the
Chartless seduction submerged in the
sweetest trust of childhood playfellows
now with the most minute of wrinkle lines.
the new breath of honey
A lexis of kisses, lost loves,
car payments and some self-examination:
really the only true distance, you know?
I can’t explain the pull, I don’t need to.
The propulsion, palpable, makes it easy.
The conversation, easier.
The same eyes, mouth, and laugh
The history of us, the heart journey to Mercury,
Mars, Africa, Eden, Abyss of
trying to figure the fucking thing out.
the solid ground under our feet we can stand on
hearing a familiar voice, (one I adore)
without losing  balance
without trying to qualify why we find it comfortable to stand still.
why it’s enough to understand the shape of your hand
and remember it in mine while singing together
on some stage at 16 feeling our feet under us, even then.
Even then, even now, the ease is all.
The curiosity is filling the cat.
Willing travel, and a feeling of flutters.
A thought of a what-if-butterfly kiss
a hand solidly resting on the low of my back.
a slow dance in some music hall, or a walk in the rain.
or maybe, just a hunt of Memphis Town, and a friendly tour guide.
I really don’t have any idea what this urge is.
I’m not going to question. I’m not going to shove it down.

The clearest expectation for us all now is to stay alive until we don’t, and find each others’ eyes. We find the hand and hold it tight for dear life, because by God, it’s time. We laugh and eat days and nights, and sing songs loud.

All else is time, and all is all.
And it’s short, you know?
how we touch, how we hide, where we can get to, and where we are to go.
the thing is, mostly of most,
to admire someone and wish them with you
is to see the underside of the Gods.
The places they secret away for the most amorous and best mortals
The ones who will carry on the work of
loving like they did, the Gods,
The demigods. The deities, The Titans, the giants, and the poets.
With Athenian chastity,
The patience of Daphnis and Chloe, waiting for the storm, wishing to be whole
Writing us, sans plot
Charting the path with Artemis-like precision,
(Catch and release, catch and release)
We imagine the Aphrodite in us, sweet friend.
Thirty years seem to speak volumes in the silence.

Or perhaps just a day, a breath of what it feels to be home.
laying on that stage.
staring up, looking at our broken lights,
wishing we were more in control of our life, our bodies
wishing for a slower dance, another field trip
another bus ride, another chance to sing songs
in the chorus room at lunch.

Maybe we are just laying on the stage again.
Humming songs in seraphic harmony
Getting those goosebumps we did
When we knew that our sounds,
mine and yours,
made us more immortal than any God
more beautiful than a Magnolia,
bursting in wet bloom.

Μου λείπεις

There is an art to missing people, I believe. It is quiet, it is active, and it is slow. The layering effect of it is staggering; the amount of energy a human has to love, and the expansive room humans have to invite more and more people into that space of nostalgia. Just when we believe we can’t do it again, we fall in love with people, we dote on moments, we make heroic even the most tempestuous of friendships in their absence. We expand and romanticize the briefest of possible flirtations. Each time we engage in hatred or discrimination we fight our most basic desire: to be home. To find resonance. To dwell in the familiar, whether it be tangible or no.

Two toddlers on a swing-set in a park don’t give a shit about Donald Trump. Or a hijab. Or a prayer. Or whiter teeth. Or even what they are named. They want to together feel that sensation in their bellies when they are suspended by the swing, inexplicably in the air, caught  by physics in a moment of shared ecstasy. That’s as real as it gets. Distilled. While all of these other things come into play later, this one moment is the fodder for remembrance.

So, I’ve been remembering. And doting. And breathing through it: the painful birth process of change. It’s baffling, swollen, pulsing, and pushing, and it’s going to happen whether I like it or not.

I’m happy to say, my life has been full of swing-sets.


Philetas gives the kissing cure.

C1: Philetas was old.
Very, very old.
And smelled of socks and badgers.

P: COME! Be quick. The snow!

D: It is Spring, Phileta-

P: The flock will flee!
Close the door!
Did you bring the fire?
I freeze!
Close the barn! The storm rages!

C1: Philetas was crazy.
Very, very crazy.
C: Philetas we come for-

P: I know what you are, Madam.
I see what you will become
When the test will have all.
Philetas succumbs to a trance
Brief and scheduled, the time of the three.
Hunger for hunger, they will all flee

D: Philetas!
She snaps out of it
P: What do you want?

D: What is it you just did there, with the words?

P: I spoke none.

D: You did. They sounded the same.
Like sweet feet.

P: Why do you speak of feet?
Ahhhhhhh, yes.
You have come for the cure.
You are manning, and you fear love.

C: Yes, we come for cure.
I rage with this malady
Day and night
Fire in my legs and hands
And dreams of liquid and longing

D: We fear death, in brief.

C: I know this syndrome has a cure.
I come now for it.
For we both, as live-ers.

D: (To C) I will miss the heat and
The holding, Chloe.
I am not sure I seek cure.
It seems our caregivers have different
About our respective conditions.
Lamon does not feel we will die, but pros-

C: Cure us now.
I cannot die.
To tend sheep without me, I fear,
Would drive you mad
And have you dive off of a cliff like a goat
I cannot think of your perishing, Daphnis
Even if I have a more serious case than you
Which I fear I do-
I cannot bear the thought of
You smushed on bottom rocks
From the grief of losing me
And my fat temperful sheep.
So we MUST be cured.

D: You are the smartest in smart.
You are right, I think.
I could never live without you.

P: I am tired of your voice.
Here is my cure for your doubt.
Here is my solution to this warmth
And this fire.
And this fear.
You shall not die once cured
The symptoms may worsen
You may feel consumed with fire
Licking. At. Each. Soft. Part.
But you will not die.
No, no, no…
There will be something else in store for you,
That Lamon, and Dryas in their solitude
Have never dreamt of
A malady that will not be described,
Cannot be extinguished
And never, ever kills, but in age.

C: Thanks, can we have it? Please?

P: Hurried, hurried. Very well.

C: Thank you. It is very cold in this hut.

P: Take this berry.

D: A berry? Isn’t this a blueberry?

P: I am talking.

D: Sorry.

P: Take this berry, and go to the sea.
Place the berry on the tip of Chloe’s tongue.

C: But what about-

P: PLACE the berry on the tip of Chloe’s tongue
And watch it disappear slowly into her petite pink mouth

C: He has to watch it dis-

P: ONCE her mouth has received the berry, you, Daphnis,
Must approach your mouth with hers,
Philetas falls into a trance
Parting her lips with your own
While smelling and hearing the roar of the sea.
With the crash of each wave, brush her hands, neck, and hair with your hands.
Once her lips are parted, then closing your eyes,
You must share the berry with your tongues, keeping it whole.
This you must do for ten counts of waves-
Very important!
Ten counts of waves.
Keep the berry whole…
Even as you gently let your mouth depart from hers.
Then, reaching in, past the lip flesh, gently take the berry from Chloe’s tongue
With soft fingers
And throw it to the sea.
The next ten waves, you must study each other’s faces
Memorizing each line
Each curve
Each hair and browning.
Philetas, exhausted, falls from the trance
That will complete it, certainly.
Then, your future in life will be certain.
And your path will be clear.
This is my cure.

D: That sounds very good.
This is a wondrous cure. I like it. It pleases me.
We may have to try a few times.
Come Chloe, to the sea.


P: Do not huff, girl. Follow the boy.
You know not mercy and wealth when it comes to you.
Be wise.Take the cure.
That will be thirty five dormas.
Leave it at the door.
Cures exhaust me and I must take mutton and mead.
Be gone.

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