"braised" poems
this is a medical emergency ossified
in utero part the hair to cover
pink earwax scar innervated this
cochlea this ******* that steals
the spotlight and rooster’s comb
braised sockets for teeth wired through
the rafters kissing corner braces
shallow chromium double-eye poke
like a pile of face bones stacked
paul bunyan forest slide and jump from
the peak to the pool shallow and
undisturbed to dunk your face and
see future pure voodoo spirit board
and voice box locked with tongue-ectomy
removal of cough through neck hole
cardboard cut stickers in half to
write ***** I’m done.*
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC
we are monsters
from the boutique to the
embroidered throw pillows the
pen dashed around the neck
stage 5 bone cut
sawing ossification to the
hollow core
we are monsters
hooting in tunnels lined
with bats coming out to feast
creation
to scrape the streets
shimmy the walls
bust the coffin and
succckk
we are monsters
who can't enter under the
doorframe
fearful of being burned by
the sun silver stake
rat poison holy water sickle
and windmill ash
we are monsters
sewed stapled dead meat
skin hair plugs ceramic
teeth tested and tasted by
rats
we are monsters
jumping high over white
fences frenzied explosion
running through corn
angrily bled in a field shot and
hunted like embarrassing
waterfowl in the jaws of
mammalia
we are monsters
of flaming brilliance flashing
in your inbox
read us and gnaw
braised
roasted
grilled limbs
watch
as we watch you
be scared and
stab
I promise we don't die.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 2:32 PM UTC
Come to me.
your inscribed
slashes of verse
branded upon
the juice of
my tongue
a specter
of the ultimate gift
as we allow
the magic
to rise
and peel off in
swathed, aching
layers,
undone
Each stratum of
dermis shed
is a prayer for
our succulent
redemption
Each shadow of
silky cuttlefish caress
a plea for sanctity
or perhaps simply
being loved
into a frenzy
of sanity
healing in waves
of electric eyes
You open me
like a holy book
and I am suddenly
filled with light
as you unlock
the blessings
from my spinal fluid
and I am a priestess
on her altar
arms raised,
love braised
into slick-lit wonder
a spiral cone rising from
ground to crown
chakric palette pulsating
phosphorescent ripples
on deep-sea creatures
Your ubiety
slakes my naked,
somatic anatomy
a mere shelter
for our souls
a working
of muscle and skin
with heart strings pumping
the essence within
Our brainwaves
sizzle in
glandular fire
as pheromones
envelope us
like incense
This goes far beyond the
wet cuntflush of desire
beyond the embellishment
of moistened sword
It is the sacred dance
of souls that merge
before even touching
pre-verbal animal
first light of mankind
in ancient swells
of earth that
rise like sparks
the constellations
of firework chimes
in arcs of
chiseled
dark
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 7:26 PM UTC
"I got down on my knees because he said I would
if I loved him.
And what did I know then?
when I first betrayed my body.
Sold it for a kiss and a smile,
thought to please at any cause,
left to fight for independence in the backseat of cars.
On stained leather interior dank with the smell of expectations
I traded integrity for security and called it love, leaving pieces of an empty shell falling behind my mother patting my head and saying
“What happened to that nice boy you were dating? ”.
Well, I pushed memories farther down
buried beneath piercing sunlight,
dreams my night would come to save
and prayed
scraping already skinned knees
while I cried myself to sleep.
So I bit the apple in confusion,
abandoned my innocence
beneath the tree of knowledge
and became as bitter as the fruit
I couldn’t refuse.
Time and again,
giving in,
giving up,
waiting,
always wanting something more than pick-up lines,
promising more than promiscuity,
clothing myself in false hopes,
enclosing my weariness in frail arms for years… Cars turning into bars with one lamp,
and piles of discarded clothing,
and I heard myself say “no” over and over.
But he didn’t hear me,
wouldn’t listen when he called me a ***** bringing me down and took the only innocence I had left.
And I was searching still for purity,
lurking in hidden corners,
hips swinging, lips pouting,
trading and shattered innocence
for bared and braised and offerings
I learned how to control
and three years of vengeance passed
while I was that woman despised.
Well, they begged for plastic perfection
found in the temptation inches from their faces and I could feel the longing,
the lies when they said “You’re so beautiful”
And it wasn’t enough
And so he loved music more than me,
loved work more than me,
loved money more than me,
loved her more than me.
And I loved him more than me.
And I gave in
to where I thought love hid;
to the times I thought it was real.
We give in to what men want,
we paint ourselves with what we think are the colors of the rainbow,
when we’re really cloaked in hips and lips,
the brutal realities that leave us grasping
tatters of the illusions of love and longing
and the shattered threads of innocence.
Until we wear our own colors
and part the curtains we draped over our mirrors in mourning
and look ourselves in and say
“With you I feel like Isis and I am beautiful”.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 3:03 AM UTC
Spring’s beautiful down south
but brash and sudden.
Up north she tiptoes up
and peeks through the window
then timidly taps on the door to see if she’s welcome
(still easily intimidated by winter)
before settling down for a spell.
When spring arrives in Maine
we cautiously peel off our outer garments
like the petals of an artichoke braised and well seasoned
savoring each discarded layer
until we reach the delicious, tender heart
and discover once more
we’re not just a pile of animate clothes
but bodies,
sensuous, delectable, playful bodies
full of trembles, shudders and precious sighs.
Down south
it’s jackets to tee shirts overnight;
no luscious dropping of winter clothes
one by one
into seductive piles on the floor,
no ******** gasp
as the first warm breeze gently caresses bare skin,
scarce any renewal.
But then,
subtlety has never been
a southern trait.
Sep 18, 2011
Sep 18, 2011 at 1:16 PM UTC
Terracotta heart baked to finesse
Terracotta heart made of all things fresh,
Terracotta heart a juvenile delinquent,
Terracotta heart born a ****** quaint,
Braised in warmth, seared in passion,
Sautéed in a cruel satiric humour,
Garnished red, to a near perfection,
Served scorching hot or a blue surrender,
Terracotta heart an agile quill,
Terracotta heart as strong as the will,
Achille's heel ageing to extinction,
Alas! Never mend this fatal habitation,
How often a day by vows endowed,
How loftily by lust ensnared,
Barmy Merchants’ failed affair,
Quit here or quietly endure,
Terracotta heart chasing fleeting dews,
Terracotta heart braving the brutal rues,
Terracotta heart, a broken souvenir,
Dare gently cater or beware,
Terracotta heart a nomad of time,
Terracotta heart an unholy shrine,
Terracotta heart baked to imperfection,
Terracotta heart never braised in affection,
Terracotta heart scattered never dead..
Terracotta heart never learned to love…
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 3:16 PM UTC
(For any family gathering during the holiday season)
My father had two brothers and four sisters, which meant there were numerous cousins. At least once a year, sometimes more, we would gather at our grandparents house in Joshua, Texas.
Come Sunday morning, the ritual of preparing the Sunday dinner would begin. Now, back then, in the 40's and 50's, it was "old school." The women went to the kitchen(led by grandmom), and the men would go outside, brace themselves against the fenders and hoods of their vehicles, conveniently parked beneath a large Texas Pecan Tree; lightup their cigars, cigarettes, or pipes, and start telling lies and yarns(much the same thing), each trying to outdo the other. The children running around the open yard, or going a hundred yards to the railroad tracks to place coins, mostly pennies, dimes, nickles(maybe a quarter,if you got an allowance), on the track rails, then wait for the afternoon/evening train. A lot of coins got flattened on those tracks.
And while the men waited.......a manisfestation began to occur........................
Aromas that would make a king cry.....
"Salivating"
Becoming impatient
Fried chicken
Baked chicken
Becoming more impatient
Laughter....
Coming from the kitchen
Roast Beef
Mashed potatoes
Lord, don't let'em forget the gravy!
Lightly braised stringbeans w/buttersauce
Fresh baked Acorn Squash
Okra
All prepared with, the 'secret ingredient'.......
" Love! "
copyright: January 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 4:52 PM UTC
Who said cemeteries are for the dead?
For those who celebrate such silence
A commotion’s something too.
Crow about the stones, smeared by sun
All gawking formal and sharply dressed, rung
A black congregation that drilled and sermoned
My ears down to coffin nails beneath
My feet, a voice that hung the wanting
Waves.
And over head I saw the braised yearling
Eagle bobbing past the undivided sun,
Who tottled about the sky in circles out
Of center, a wearing down of gear
Churning with the grave
Bruising birds, that spoke
And wheeled over dusty
Stones.
Sea spray, leaning trees, slant
Of cloud, spilt green grass of one
Sided mosses all pointing which was to be —
The way,
And leaving there, I saw the sign and it read:
‘Ocean View Cemetery,’
Opens at sunrise —
Closes at sunset.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 12:54 PM UTC
I went on a fishing trip and all I got was a bunch of worms.
I opened every single can in an attempt to keep what I had earned.
Tiresome days. Brightly lit nights.
Beer-Battered and braised on the menu tonight.
Brains splattered and bruised in the venue tonight.
You bring the torches, and I'll supply the mob.
We'll rob this town of all it's got,
Ransack every single plot,
So that tomorrow's day will show no light.
Observe the unheard
With their leaves all unturned.
Sharply carved and crudely drawn.
No plan of attack is the best defense, after all.
Things are lookin up to me , so I'm climbing over walls.
When my head hangs low another brick slips and falls.
Push and shove,
War of Tugs,
Smiling mean mugs.
Contrary to popular contradictions,
Irony just packed its paradigms into cardboard paradoxes.
Breathing heavily as I pack my life into a handful of moving boxes,
I'm starting to remember what my floor looks like when it's not covered by useless possessions and countless pairs of boxers.
That is to say, I'm grounded on this unfounded belief.
Hail to the thief.
My pen flows endlessly
As I pretend to be
The boy I used to see
Before this evolutionary split
Brought me to the grave of unspoken revolutionaries.
I halfway wish you never met me.
That that hallway conversation never came to be.
That I could live out these days with a less poignant memory of agony.
But I remember all that I've learned
And that I'm not moving out, I'm moving on
To somewhere I can finally earn my own keep.
I'll be around sometimes, but I'm currently unavailable,
So please leave a message after the beep...
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 9:15 AM UTC
*My mother is a rabbit.
She ate thistle and it pricked
Right through her intestines on the
Way down. I butchered her, gently,
Exactly like a chicken.
And I braised her in a stock *** with
A mustard sauce. Her meat fell
Off the bone and into hand-rolled
Pasta. I didn't eat her; I loved her too much.
Sprinkled with herbs in her greenery she looked
Peaceful though. And someone found nourishment
In that body not much different than my own.
I didn't cry. I only adjusted my seasoning.*
I'm still not sure what it means to be human except to have a moral compass and no ability to turn it off.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 11:23 AM UTC
Who said cemeteries are for the dead?
For those who celebrate such silence
A commotion’s something too.
Crow about the stones, smeared by sun
All gawking formal and sharply dressed, rung
A black congregation that drilled and sermoned
My ears down to coffin nails beneath
My feet, a voice that hung the wanting
Waves.
And over head I saw the braised yearling
Eagle bobbing past the undivided sun,
Who tottled about the sky in circles out
Of center, a wearing down of gear
Churning with the grave
Bruising birds, that spoke
And wheeled over dusty
Stones.
Sea spray, leaning trees, slant
Of cloud, spilt green grass of one
Sided mosses all pointing which was to be —
The way,
And leaving there, I saw the sign and it read:
‘Ocean View Cemetery,’
Opens at sunrise —
Closes at sunset.
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 1:14 PM UTC
Who said cemeteries are for the dead?
For those who celebrate such silence
A commotion’s something too.
Crow about the stones, smeared by sun
All gawking formal and sharply dressed, rung
A black congregation that drilled and sermoned
My ears down to coffin nails beneath
My feet, a voice that hung the wanting
Waves.
And over head I saw the braised yearling
Eagle bobbing past the undivided sun,
Who tottled about the sky in circles out
Of center, a wearing down of gear
Churning with the grave
Bruising birds, that spoke
And wheeled over dusty
Stones.
Sea spray, leaning trees, slant
Of cloud, spilt green grass of one
Sided mosses all pointing which was to be —
The way,
And leaving there, I saw the sign and it read:
‘Ocean View Cemetery,’
Opens at sunrise —
Closes at sunset.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 1:17 PM UTC
Who said cemeteries are for the dead?
For those who celebrate such silence
A commotion’s something too.
Crow about the stones, smeared by sun
All gawking formal and sharply dressed, rung
A black congregation that drilled and sermoned
My ears down to coffin nails beneath
My feet, a voice that hung the wanting
Waves.
And over head I saw the braised yearling
Eagle bobbing past the undivided sun,
Who tottled about the sky in circles out
Of center, a wearing down of gear
Churning with the grave
Bruising birds, that spoke
And wheeled over dusty
Stones.
Sea spray, leaning trees, slant
Of cloud, spilt green grass of one
Sided mosses all pointing which was to be —
The way,
And leaving there, I saw the sign and it read:
‘Ocean View Cemetery,’
Opens at sunrise —
Closes at sunset.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
Coffee with cream, ketchup on chips
Gravy poured over most everything
Coconut milk in the red hot curry
Hot dipping sauce laced on a chicken wing.
Mashed potato with butter and cheese
hot cheese dripping down the fork
Roasted crackling as crisp as can be
just sliding off the salt roast pork.
Onions braised in red wine sauce
Sausages with hot ******* and peas
A crusty bread roll to sandwich them
A refreshing Greek salad with feta cheese
Puddings galore in every possible way
Custard and every assorted ice creams
Strawberry jam plastered on the toast
My favourites and in my wildest dreams.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 9:01 PM UTC
Who said cemeteries are for the dead?
For those who celebrate such silence
A commotion’s something too.
Crow about the stones, smeared by sun
All gawking formal and sharply dressed, rung
A black congregation that drilled and sermoned
My ears down to coffin nails beneath
My feet, a voice that hung the wanting
Waves.
And over head I saw the braised yearling
Eagle bobbing past the undivided sun,
Who tottled about the sky in circles out
Of center, a wearing down of gear
Churning with the grave
Bruising birds, that spoke
And wheeled over dusty
Stones.
Sea spray, leaning trees, slant
Of cloud, spilt green grass of one
Sided mosses all pointing which was to be —
The way,
And leaving there, I saw the sign and it read:
‘Ocean View Cemetery,’
Opens at sunrise —
Closes at sunset.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 11:26 AM UTC
Your enchantment was a spell to my heart, along to everyone else who's ever been unlucky enough to cross paths with you,
The world loved you,
It kissed you every night and drowned your ***** secrets so that no one could see through you,
But you could never really love anything back.
I watched you destroy me every single day,
I wanted to get away,
But your soft touch felt like a sweet lullaby kissing my ears,
And just like a lost, fragile soul,
It always lingered me back to you.
You starred at me with eyes that made me feel like I was the only one you've ever loved,
And when you held my hand,
The bitterness inside me seemed to fade.
If I had known back then,
That you'd hurt me the way you have,
I never would've gone back.
But then again,
I was so certain it wasn't all in my head,
I still would've stayed and braised myself for a heartbreak.
Now I'm lost and you're looking for me,
I haven't got anywhere else to go,
But if I stay where I am today,
You'd only use your hypnotic ways,
To make sure that I never go away again.
But you don't do this for me,
No,
You can't stand the fact that I'll be the only one in the world who you can't get to.
You've left me completly destroyed,
But I've learned to run with a broken leg and a bruised body full of scars that I once believed I could call your love,
But you could never really love anything back.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 7:13 PM UTC
Topolobampo, Xoco, Xoco River North,
Frontera Grill, Frontera Fresco, Fonda Frontera,
Tortas Frontera, Frontera Cocina,
Lena Brava, Cruz Blanca,
Red O.
PBS specials, Michelin stars and public cooking demos
be ******
that's too many, right?
Load up your guac with all the pork belly and pepitas
you want.
Star in a self-indulgent Lookingglass Theatre play.
Soak up the accolades of being a culinary genius
more than a Jalisco-style slow-braised goat
sits in its own juices.
But hey man, come on,
give us a break.
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 3:07 AM UTC
This Time. Now. Where the Monuments will speak
The Prince of the North cheers the Dame on her Guild
That at last would their worth-bound Souls will keep
Fifty-Starred Trials wipe this Cankerous Field
Happy beseech, clime this Eloquent News
Her Skill with Striped Sorority will merge
Towards append - prim Victory ensue
Then their braised party for Red Cups will splurge
For now. The Board. Make focus on her Craft
Point the Latin Consulate with reprieve
Evermore. Support. Bless this penchant Draft
Pawn bets by Prayers; As what you believe.
So the Dove perches. Its beak drops a Pence
Which slots your Alarm; Then improves you hence.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
Behold! Kneel before the Empire raised
From your Foundry placed Kingdoms on your Dive
Of Knights, Regents, Bishops and Orbs so Braised
As Sultans by Carriage offer does Live
So this Life you Wish coat with such Affairs
Expect your Honest Gratitudes approve
Yet the Nose - High to Un-Reachable Songs - spares
Merely Tiny Tidbits of your own Love
Not Ring, nor Dance, nor any Bed Post-Date
Would these Petitions their Good Voices own
Which - by Reason - your Happiness debate
Lift their Forked Lives re-phrased on your Bestow.
Including I - the Heretic in Full
Prostrate before this Emperor in Soul.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 2:59 AM UTC
Who said cemeteries are for the dead?
For those who celebrate such silence
A commotion’s something too.
Crow about the stones, smeared by sun
All gawking formal and sharply dressed, rung
A black congregation that drilled and sermoned
My ears down to coffin nails beneath
My feet, a voice that hung the wanting
Waves.
And over head I saw the braised yearling
Eagle bobbing past the undivided sun,
Who tottled about the sky in circles out
Of center, a wearing down of gear
Churning with the grave
Bruising birds, that spoke
And wheeled over dusty
Stones.
Sea spray, leaning trees, slant
Of cloud, spilt green grass of one
Sided mosses all pointing which was to be —
The way,
And leaving there, I saw the sign and it read:
‘Ocean View Cemetery,’
Opens at sunrise —
Closes at sunset.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
Who said cemeteries are for the dead?
For those who celebrate such silence
A commotion’s something too.
Crow about the stones, smeared by sun
All gawking formal and sharply dressed, rung
A black congregation that drilled and sermoned
My ears down to coffin nails beneath
My feet, a voice that hung the wanting
Waves.
And over head I saw the braised yearling
Eagle bobbing past the undivided sun,
Who tottled about the sky in circles out
Of center, a wearing down of gear
Churning with the grave
Bruising birds, that spoke
And wheeled over dusty
Stones.
Sea spray, leaning trees, slant
Of cloud, spilt green grass of one
Sided mosses all pointing which was to be —
The way,
And leaving there, I saw the sign and it read:
‘Ocean View Cemetery,’
Opens at sunrise —
Closes at sunset.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
One so Young as to inspire Relief
Yet in my Terms he sought to disobey
Which, after all, Authority as brief
Drag those Arid Racers spit for the day
The Ocean warms. One the Spoon cannot stir
Since your Recipe in Past News remit
Harboured by Fortiments made such Themes blur
And braised Emotion to your Benefit
Now the Angel speaks. And speaks on the Rough
Submitting her summed Haloes for your Shield
That, deserving, made Plastic on your Rough
And caused the Tabloids to Honour your Field.
Coward! Take the Rod and hamper my Back
For Manhood you own; And Conscience you lack.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 11:07 AM UTC
Denied
You bathed, in delusion
Relied
I braised, in illusion
...don't wander
...don't wander 'round in here
...heed the warning, and
...don't wander 'round in here
Yet and still
You are the air
I taste
And breathe
...don't wonder
...and don't wander 'round in here
...don't wonder, heed the warning
...and don't wander 'round in here
Bet or bill
I am the price
You hate to pay
And so, you seethe
...don't wander
...don't wander 'round in here
...heed the warning, and
...don't wander 'round in here
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 9:15 AM UTC
‘Twas a sultry night, when you solemnly inquired –
“Would you like to have a piece of meat?”
A conscientious vegan like myself, rarely required
such unwarranted delicacies to eat.
Startled as I was, to myself I reasoned:
” it’s not as if I indulge every day –
and if a prime rib beckons, so perfectly seasoned
then even I’m allowed to go astray ”
you proffered to me, a choicey cut
Yet I waited for the perfect buy-ins;
lean and trim, the steaks were high, but–
the deal was only for the tenderloins.
Alas dear reader, that is where I mistook
my desires for a saucy brisket,
for in truth it was that I fancied the cook
but such emotions to flourish – I couldn’t risk it.
To grill is a skill that must be honed –
To be well-done is indeed so rare!
the merriment came not from being T-boned
though it wasn’t half bad, to be rather fair.
And oh my dear you had me speared
upon your metaphorical spit,
and thus Impaled like kabobs I seared,
upon fires of desires that befit.
One such night, I denied myself a meal
thinking it to be fine and dandy
what did it matter, venison or veal
when in truth, I wasn’t really randy
To my shock, what I had thought was written-
as my appetite for fleshy delights,
was instead that I was undoubtedly smitten,
indulging my fancies in the chef’s invites.
Oh then I realized, I was in a stew
of a situation I never appraised
My untimely declaration sent your spits askew
When I said I want you preserved, not braised.
And of course, as I knew, you shook your head
said kinds words and went on ahead
But dearest, nigh a mo’ had I expected more
than being hastily pushed out of the door.
For cooks cook, but must not be mistook
for another entree to be had, for sure.
The dish is what the cook will cook
but the cook is not the dish d’jour.
Cured I was of such carnal an error
much wiser a decision I’d made I wish
for a recipe for disaster is every chef’s terror
when a patron, as I, butchers a perfect dish.
A lesson I learnt, one you taught so fast
’twas not a lesson in grilling —
but to choose a more delectable repast
one that thought that I was equally thrilling.
But to be fair, I give credit much deserved
to a palatable person as you
for Grade A and gourmet are commonly served
and yet only to you I succumbed without ado.
For as a vegan, I religiously abstain
from undue pleasures of the flesh
yet while the romps of meats were not in vain
I paid my compliments only to the chef…
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 2:19 PM UTC
In my father's kitchen,
I grew up with Sade,
bleeding tomato sauce,
braised sausage,
doughy pasta,
and parmesan cheese.
How lucky to be raised
on such warm wooden floors,
the kiss of life kind to me.
And how I've squandered it,
listening to Sade alone with
dry pasta,
canned sauce,
soy sausage,
and no cheese
Half-heartedly dancing
with a cheerful grimace
plastered on my face: What was.
All I think now are moments.
Tiny little f r a c t i o n s of
a second of a thought,
when I didn't try hard enough,
or failed to defeat my expectations.
Maybe those fractions
make up the difference between
happiness and whatever this is,
nostalgia insists.
One day the thought of never
achieving became so overwhelming,
I disappeared, isolated myself,
lived like a pauper,
afraid of wasting time,
stoicism by my side.
But even then,
with no distractions,
I couldn't rid myself of the thoughts.
If anything they were
more magnified by the silence.
Yet all I craved was silence...
and clarity.
How strange that whatever I crave
puts me
exactly where I don't want to be.
Things turned out. As they continue...
had I known this sitting
on the sun-soaked floors of my Italian roots,
I'd have jumped a decade ago,
perched at the window screen,
wondering how far the fall...
...no, I don't think...
but was it high enough?
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 10:46 PM UTC