consuelacooks

cooking, poetry, and unapologetic intense moments in a life

Category: New World

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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Buffeted by the roar

they run sidelong to the raw spot

the ice under Sunday feet tempts the fall

but holding steady they

look the anti-hero in the eyes

each.              several.            pore.

They know the smell of the forearm, the navel, the mouth

an inch is not given

but a subtle sigh

reminds them

of the field

they hold in protest

between lovers bodies

the magnetic one, the mine one, the playing one–

(the history older than light or sound, where language began, where heat was discovered and gills grew. Where breath was sucked first)

–that binds the space they occupy.

Jaws hold tight, fists secure in woolen pockets, they are WINNING. Holding tight. Not an inch. Not one.

The crafty wind bellows too hard, though.

It pushes, cracks the moment, shoves

headlong, laughs in the wash of  tired

restraint.

They fall suddenly, with clamorous equivocation, gravid with stones

(the rain, a comedic metronome)

the inevitable rejoinder

into the puzzle pieces they unwillingly are, laggard

as they close ferocious,

and with premeditated lamentation

masticating mouths the substance of fire.

the slightest silk,

the most meager of archangels,

they return to that.

A parley, they knew. They’ve known.

But the comfort was all,

that Sunday.

 

 

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.

napomon day six?

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Joan (Things people say)

Awash with joy
She climbed to the top of green hill
Aching for a better look
As the siege laid claim to the soldiers

She watched carefully as each
Several comrade
Was slain one by two by five
Lambs, she thought, to the slaughter

The Godly messages betrayed her that day
Prayer couldn’t find her lips
Without words the world crumbled
The only thing left to do was ignite and wait for rain, possibly

Or for a more experienced messenger
To wind her in words more reliable

The Gods said Whoopsie. Na Po Mo Da Thre

ImageThere were three surges that day.

One, a great love.
The kind of legends.
The kind that harbors back breaking mischief in corners.
The kind that leaves two weary.
The kind where finger bruises are the thing
and food becomes tertiary to sleep and more making of the love.

Two, a great tidal wave
Encompassing town,
Beast
And burden alike.

Three, a great fire
Hovering above water and love.
Floating free on the blanketed town
And the lovers
lost under the sea.
It signaled to the Gods,
somewhere above
-the slate was clean.
That it was time to come in and redecorate.

So the Gods went bowling that day. They drained it all dry and cleared the wreckage. Made the graves and buried all lost. Planted lovely trees. Built mansions of gold. Revamped the sky and the sea to cleaner shades of blue. Washed the air with reeds of lavender. Said prayers to larger Gods to protect this Mecca, this land of promise.

And they waited.
First with sublime patience.
Each moment ached with anticipation.
A tantalizing task for the all-powerful.
The sun would plummet from the painted sky each day, exactly as planned.
The moon complied with schedules, waning and waxing like the best of them.
But nothing howled.
Nothing required rain.
All stayed feverishly still for three hundred thousand years.

The Gods were sad, despondent
Overwhelmed with sweet grief the moment it dawned on them
You see, the grievous error had become apparent.
The Gods were out of luck. They knew when they heard it.
On that balmy Sunday.
The sound.
The only sound.
The moving air came from the song.
The song that wafted up to the Gods.
The first song they had heard in three hundred thousand and one years.
This was the only sound to ever be heard again.
It came of the hollowed, barren ghosts of the lovers.
A simple song that spoke of a love lost to a terrible flood.
A song that remembered flesh and tooth and secrets.
An aching ditty that spoke of requirement.
A foreboding tale that spoke of an island never to see life. Never again.
Until hand by hand the lovers could eat each other whole like almonds.

As the Gods became aware of this error, this love extinguishing blow they issued,
They tried to make good on the deed.
But as their luck had run out, they saw.
Oh, did they see.
How immortal they had made the lovers.
How this song was punishment, penance and purgatory.
How this would become the way
The way to worship
The way to plead
The only vernacular for communication in a still, subtle world of no breath at all.

The terrible loop of lost love made half world shamed the Gods.
They begged for mercy as the specters searched in vain
For lover’s kiss that would never, never come.
A musical moaning filling each moment,
Each breath
Each godly sigh.

Sandman. Or keep passing the open windows.

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Muscle slips from bone 

shutter eyes begin a short story

It begins with something blue, some liquid

some pulse matter that wraps

even the fierce fire

in wet safety.

Each beat,breath cherishes the one before. They are all some celestial gift or some

fodder for butterfly kisses

each picture sneaks in a longer look at your sideways sleeping cheek

fleshy, soft, replete with

the most flight worthy birds

We whisper a secret in our tongues that only morning understands.

Fickle, fickle morning. Fickle first light.

The first light where you were most lovely.

Most lovely in that light.

Sometimes you don’t want to dumb it down.

ImageI’m going to hair.
I’m going to bone.
I’m going to sea
I’m going to forest and hum
a city that doesn’t want for kindness.

Time that won’t rest, debts always paid. Softer countenance than yours.

(The Mirror up to nature)

Sure of me. Sure of me. Be sure, I said. And don’t take it back on Thursdays.

Cataclysmic lovers, poets, madmen!
VI amo con tutto il mio cuore.

And god’s fingers are here

here in these hills, smothered in thick white-
every celestial vein
every angelic knocked point gives a destination, a time, and place
and thirty steps to a corner store for spirits, they say, those gentlemen…
And don’t they love and lie and hiss and sing and kiss and touch and rage and howl at the moon in the New World? The New England? (Billy Bragg isn’t looking hard enough)

(And those crazy Thracians- Philomela in her hut having those things done that he did and then them all becoming those crazy birds)

Maybe we can do that , become those birds, when we get the nights back, when we can watch the sun set again, when it gets back to hand holding and fires.
When the wall portraits finally close their stoic eyes and let us play. When we close our stoic eyes and see what is in front of us, not a month behind.

And the house was made of glass, each several window blown sugar, each strand of sugar spider webs, each web the finest dew line, each dew line the stuff of dreams.
And in 15something they wrote a book for me
I have it by my bedside,
It produced tributary tears in the getting of it. It teaches me how to human well.

fiends, sleepers,
lunatics, composers
poets, builders
horrors, flying girls, painters, and professors-  those who dig deep in the dirt

come to the circle, she said and wear it like the costume of a play.
it is a triple night of palettes for trying.
Oh sisters and brothers-
Soyez prêt pour un festin. Nous serons présents tout.

Et mangez-vous entier.

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Photos to fuel your Cupidity

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As you were….

-Carm

Sweet seasonal sadness, poetic peanut butter, and wantings.

AND FIVE SIX SEVEN I ZOOMED THESE PAST FEW
A BUZZ WITH WANTON WANTINGS AND WIDDERSHIN PENDULUMS
RUNNING FINDING CLOCKS AND CALORIE COUNTS
FASTER THAN USUAL, EVERYTHING.
AND EIGHT NINE TEN I LOST ONE, I GAINED ONE, I NEVER STAY FOCUSED VERY LONG AND
MY FRIENDS I GRAPPLED THEM WITH HOOPS OF STEEL
TO SINEWY FLUFF HEART, FULL
OF WATER, PIGS, AND OTHER SUCH PLUSH STUFF

AND I THOUGHT OF YOU IN YOUR NEW HAMPSHIRE
OR YOUR WOODS SOMEWHERE 
THINKING OF THE BIG THINGS AND GROWING FROM BOY TO MAN AND I HELD YOUR FACE ON MY BELLY ONCE
MY HAIR WAS SO LONG IT BRUSHED YOU THERE

AND I REMEMBER THE BERKSHIRE NIGHT WHEN WE WENT TO THE WHARTON MANSION,

GORGING ON BUTTER PECAN OUT BY THE WATEr

WANDERING THROUGH THOSE HAUNTED WOODS LOOKING FOR INDIANS

EDITH WAS ON FIRE THAT NIGHT, LIKE US
WANTING TO KISS, BUT NOT
NERVOSA KEPT US FROM ALL 

AND CHASTITY IS WHY I REMEMBER YOU, LOVE.

I WANT WOODS NOW, WOODS WHERE I CAN RUN AND FIND SCREAMING DEAD PERFECT INDIANS
FLASHING FIRE EYES THROUGH GREEN NIGHT WITH
A HUNDRED YEAR OLD SOMETHING MANSION STARING ME DOWN.
I WANT TO BELLY BRUSH FACE AND HAND
I WANT A ZIP CODE OF KISSES
AND A KINDER WAY TO KEEP THE SUN

AND I’M NOT SO FAR FROM IT REALLY.

AND I TWISTED MY HAND INTO THE SHAPE OF A ROSE
AND I KNEW, I KNOW I BELONG IN THE SHAPE OF THE HARVEST MOON
AND I KNOW HOW TO SAY MY NAME
SO THAT THEY HEAR.

I CHOOSE INSTEAD TO
GO FIVE THOUSAND MILES FAST

AND FORGET THE TASTE OF SALT TEARS

“When clouds appear, wise men put on their cloaks; When great leaves fall, the Winter is at hand;When the sun sets, who doth not look for night? Untimely storms make men expect a dearth. All may be well; but, if God sort it so,’Tis more than we deserve, or I expect.”

-Richard III, Willy Shakes

“A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head”

-R & J, Same Guy

“You think I’ll weep
No, I’ll not weep:
I have full cause of weeping; but this heart
Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws,
Or ere I’ll weep. O fool, I shall go mad!”

The Tragedy of King Lear, Yada Yada Yada…

Seasonal affective disorder (SAD), also known as winter depressionwinter bluessummer depressionsummer blues, or seasonal depression, is a mood disorder in which people who have normal mental health throughout most of the year experience depressive symptoms in the winter or summer,[1] spring or autumn year after year. In the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-IV), SAD is not a unique mood disorder, but is “a specifier of major depression”.[2]

Although experts were initially skeptical, this condition is now recognized as a common disorder, with its prevalence in the U.S. ranging from 1.4 percent in Florida to 9.7 percent in New Hampshire.[3]

The U.S. National Library of Medicine notes that “some people experience a serious mood change when the seasons change. They may sleep too much, have little energy, and may also feel depressed. Though symptoms can be severe, they usually clear up.”[4] The condition in the summer can include heightened anxiety.[5]

I have noticed some really textbook responses to this condition. Seasonal Depression is rampant here.This shit is real.  Most of my friends and myself get spanked by this every year. Here are some methods of temporary release from Seasonal Depression, none of which I endorse as a cure, but all fun in their own way I suppose:

Gobs of Medication. Takes 2-6 weeks to kick in. Not timely.

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Drinking. Lots of it. Late at night at socked in bars with locals. Loses magic quickly…

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Spirituality. Can be daily. Definitely helps, but can be lonely without the community to support it. It’s hard to congregate when you cannot leave your house.

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Intimacy.  This is always a quick and temporary fix. Short term but effective. And fun.

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Pets. They help. A lot.

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Friends. Lots of them. Gathering. Staying warm. Loving one another and just getting through. This works too. Probably best of all.

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Good Food! Winter food! The universe provides comfort foods in the Winter for a reason. I believe that root vegetables feed the inside and outside of your soul. They scrub it out.

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.

So. When I get sad- by my own prescription I will attempt to eat only super foods while shotgunning a beer, hugging a dog, taking some Prozac, and alternately kissing my good friends while on a rosary.

OR.

JUST WAIT.

WINTER WILL END…

And the Spring will be glorious.  And we will lick the Sun and take our clothes off and jump in lakes again. We will watch Tanglewood on a hot July evening and swat mosquitoes and roll in the grass.We will all in reality get through this. It sure doesn’t feel like it right now to me… But the paralysis will eventually end and we will feel alive again. Soon the boulders will get off of our shoulders and we will use them for target practice. We will roll them uphill. So- keep on keeping on. And remember to love each other.

-Carmen-maria

Swim in this, and hold your breath.

Last night there was certain magic that occurred.  I slept well for the first in my new apartment. I think there might be a few contributing factors to this happening.

One:

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This girl. Frances Maui. A new addition to my life. Smart, fast, beautiful. Kind. Funny. Sleeps under the covers with me.

Two:

The dinner.

Homemade Guacamole, Pico and lovely chips.

Slow roasted pork and tofu (Chipoltle peppers, Honey, Molasses, Cumin, Lemon Juice, Cashews, Almonds, Chocolate)

Couscous with Pine Nuts, Cilantro, Onions, and Tomatoes

Beets roasted in Malbec with Molasses, Cayenne and Sea Salt

Three:

The People. A lovely bunch. Jo, Luke, Caroline, James, Caitlin and I. And Franny the Cat. Who was on her best behavior. Like always. It filled up my heart, filled up the house, and filled the creaky spaces left with questionable energy with love.

Four:

I started writing again. Revisiting poetry from the past year. Sprucing it up. Humaning it. Making it breathe.

Post lizard-hunting activities

One day until wheels leave ground and I am airborne

And two three dancing at the derby and

Three four spine like I will travel down old paths

And old familiar eyes

Angels and batboys both need running shoes

And twenty years later will I say your name?

The house is burning, sweet Jesus- the smoke!

Skywise it puffs up like proud bird and God will go bowling soon

I’ll point my toes toward the red

If only for a day more

A night more

One love at a time at a viper’s speed

Pouncing on heart and freeing the room that was left

Behind years ago

Where falling leaves live, and earthworms the size of

Stormtroopers, cats the size of

Two-stories, hands the size of

Me.

And I pause for dreaming

I remember running, running so fast, so far in rain

At six or seven, running in stealth, me and Roberto

Fast with tight white Florida shirts baring

Arms, hands brown

Shorts baring brown legs, dirty knees

(post lizard hunting)

And that lightning could have pounded me in the chest as he

Closed in fast

Closed in grabbing

Arms tight closed in hard and fast

On pink mouth with kiss

And the rain ran down curiosity

The rain ran down a different take on Father

The rain ran down balloons and birthday scotch

I felt tongue muscle slide across wet bottom lip

Fierce Florida destitute forlorn poor kids

Learning the way to longer days

Punching the sky with boredom and new-found

Belly clenching activities

I don’t want to give, I say. I don’t want to

Have to quiet down.

I want to yell it scream it kick it whisper it

Bigger than my life before

I want to swim before and after by MY hand.

I want to keep my words, and my womb and my wicked hands

And throw them slowly to the sea

I want to learn 5 ways to say I desire you.

I want to be silent and only watch.

I want a different take on this all.

I want to rub chocolate on the white house and

Eat from my yard

I want to eat you like a whole almond, he said.

Me and time we see,

And I never knew the shape of trees in a hurricane.

And I love has never left me so full as these years, three

And I wait for your foot on the stair.

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