cooking, poetry, and unapologetic intense moments in a life

Category: Winter

Tue 222

This morning I gave up bewilderment.

Took new snow in bare hands, wiped clean.

Skyward gazing, seeing the brown of morning eyes.


It has been four hundred years.

Since in the histrionic ante meridiem

You, compunctious , penitent, shame faced

Sold me the snake oil

that gave salve for the emboldened heart

acclimatized my expectation

resurgence of disquiet

I held my heart in my hand and ate of it

(creature in a desert, naked, bestial)


One can’t help but remember, though

On a sweet January day

that concave part

beside the basket of ribs–the alabaster crevasse

(You showed it me)

perhaps where you kept your wishes and desires

Your conjecture

Your bliss

Your ecstatic posturing, feral

your violence and ignominy,

the sound of your voice in deep midnights.


Or better yet, the names and numbers of the snowflakes that would fall

in eulogy

the day you walked away.


It’s all so dramatic, she said.

The Whole lot.

Something comes of nothing and then, bother, bother

the whole place erupts in glamour. Clamour

erupts in the sunshine, the moonshine, the deep seated egress

-the bible of those two.

Oh, those volumes spoken in glances were so very tiresome

for two as timid as trees, windless.


It’s all so ecstatic, she said

The sole shot

Something comes of nothing and then, Farther, farther

The whole grace disrupts in armor, stammer

disrupts sin, confine, consign, maligning sleep cheated confession

-the bible of those two

No, shows volumes long broken in chances were so very dire, mums

the word, for two as livid as leaves, flightless


It’s all so climactic, she said

The blood clot.

That effortless bruise, the reminder of all that was, is– holy.

The prayer in tongues older than sound

more revealing than sight,

larger than the space a girl occupies

achromic, melancholy,


naming the planets, each for a sigh.











Memory loss, 951


Some Inn with a fire, somewhere in some Berkshire town.

With some rug, some orange, some tub

lilac smelling


prophesies- some day something

some cataclysm would befall

some lovers


they would fall, relent, give in

learn the lash line

sink the teeth


armed, perhaps for the sheet fort confrontation

and the inevitable wounds

of the war.






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.




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


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.



napomo day eight or nothing is certain



Adeline came through water in Hyde Park Gate that day.
(Wet, screaming jumble of blood and bones)
Straight into the world
(One awash with blank pages.)
Water would be the theme, it seems.
Did she know as she penned that manifesto for women?
Was it plain to her?
Did she know that when the rusty cage freed her
She would return to the River Ouse?
If so, she waited until the words ran out.
When she knew it was time
When all she could write
Was a simple note to her weary, quiet love
After he left her toast and tea and went walking in Sussex
A few particular phrases
And some praise
No heroes or lovers, but a truce
A certainty on that balmy day in March

A great truth became as soon as it was applied to paper
It rested for release while she collected rocks for her pockets
“Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness”
Blood and bones, she went in
Blood, bones and all

No title

There is a certain time

when the growing up starts

slowly, they say

but it is loud, and sudden

and all at once you realize


you should be the thing

not the after

not the in between

The grass sprouts between your toes because you are on the solid ground.

no matter how much you want

no matter how much you move,

you cannot change anything or anyone.

You can only realize you are the best thing you’ve ever come up with.

And the lucky ones should stand in line.

All that being said.

I am glad for you. And glad it’s done.

Mourning wear or I want to eat you alive.



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.

Sandman. Or keep passing the open windows.


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.

wise women tell tales in secret books


In stealth
I lurked over it
seeing escapades
light, dark mischief
twenty lovers
one hundred miscarriages of justice
loss of things
a lie and a dark secret.

when I opened it
the pages creaked as if only opened
years ago

I found a phrase on the second page
in neat printing
the only one in the book.
I pictured her face as I prepared to read it.

“I write my life through action.”

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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