I busted my brains
open and scooped
out the raw flesh
and useless ****** material

only to replace it
with dashes
of schizophrenic paprika
and hits of new world
ordered acid....

first I smell myself.

the deep bass tonality of my musk,
hot, creamy, sweetness unique, of coffee and creamy,
my owned sweat oiled secretions massaged into her skin
emplaced by vigorous parts rubbing and tongue caressing,
under the fading shadows of my glancing, desirous admirings


then I smell herself.

sinking sunset glimpses of last nights parfume parfait,
scattered in random strategic locations architecturally planned,
some flavors come over me like modest waves,
others spelunking found in crevices, cracks and caves,
where humans tread in guileless search of guiltless pleasure

then I smell our sharings.

lemon and thyme, paprika, sea salt and pepper,
a basted rub laid upon animal skin consuming, and consumed,
the vinaigrette balsamic and California yellow raisins, pine nuts,
decorating leaves of red soil spinach and spicy arugula,
word salads, so miraculously ingenious, you swear off eating flesh

then I smell our combinations.

the air conditioned atmosphere that blends us properly chilled,
the olive oils pressed from two colored differing skins,
the mortal and pestle finely grinding our own fresh crumbled dirt,
appearing in places where dirt is wet panko crumbs encrusting us,
our combined liquidity, shaken and stirred, drying in martini tandem

it is 8:17am and this recipe of reciprocity,
at its most pungent peaking,
for soon raining waterfalls of potable city water
and the sophistry of French soap,
the pseudoscience of modern chemical shampoo,
together erasing, scrubbing away this poems aromatherapy tapestry,
your perplexed complexing nostrils will mock you once more,
for ever disbelieving, thinking you could no longer write of
only love poetry that crested high above the trite


Friday, March 29 2019

no dead birds in the oven
no innards in the stuffing
nor fatty drippings to be scraped and poured

the smell of roasted veggies
wafts through  the wintry air
pumpkin and sweet potatoes
marshmallows  green beans  lentils
turnips  & collard greens
hashed browns & black-eyed peas
quinoa  sorghum cuscus hummus
carrots  leak  broccoli Romanescu
gumbo in southern regions
wild rice dishes in the north
tastily spiced with turmeric
cumin and baked paprika
Indian curry  soy sauce  chipotle
as well as with the usual suspects
of garlic  salt  and pepper
and whatever fits the taste of hosts

in short
a venerable feast to demonstrate
how nature feeds us a large cornucopia
of plants for our delight and sustenance

in short
no need to **** a bird

                * *

Chick peas et al Garbonzo beans'
a machine with blades, the means.

Tahini, lemon juice and a red pepper flakes,
A chipolte in abodo, smoked paprika, is what it takes.

Roasted red pepper, garlic too, touches on the button,
The roar, whirr and with the sounds blending till done.

Salt and pepper to taste,
Not too much or it is a waste,  
Not to little or, well, you know,
A hint of red just shows.

With your crusty bread, dig in like you hold a shovel,
Two handed flavour, taste and bite into that crusty bread,
Flavour moves and sends a smoky heat sensation to a new level,
Hope this is the best tasting poem that you have  read!

pimiento angeldust,
where have you been
all my life?

though I wish
I met you sooner
let's not bemoan
days gone by

but start now
in agape mouth
with a thorough intro
upon eggs and 'cado

and this tongue
that loves you so

Be afraid.
The breakdown of civilization
is at the hands of our well-meaning,
overly thrifty,
spoon-wielding  mothers.

Be very afraid.
They are entranced by spices
and covering condiments,
pepper and powder,
onion and garlic galore.

Gingerly they add cumin and dill,
cinnamon, nutmeg or cloves
with thyme to add sage and curry,
parsley, paprika and allspice.

Their casseroles become
zombie food
as the dead
reanimates.

These cheese-added monsters,
hungry for mystery-meat,
render brains to mush
and bind our bowels.

They stiffen our gait
with numbness and nausea
until we are rendered victims
of another pepto-pandemic.

And in the night
of the living dead,
feeding us salt
in a casserole apocalypse,
we panicked victims become
the casseroles we consume.

Now paralyzed
in fear
by the light
of the open refrigerator.

Godzilla!
Ratrun bro
DG!!!
Cool spaceship
very alien
I like paprika on everything
Stop
this is a LOCKED unit
This exit door is for EMERGENCIES only
Alarm will sound
Unlock with NA-1 key
674 EE31640
Model S/N
Check
Fire Fire
Thanks Jordan
for the words of encouragement
and the St. Michael's card
it really
helped
Rapture dragons
AC/DC
<3 Love etc
FCV
NEW

prefer celery to carrots
light scrunch over an orange hard crack,
straw red over berries bluest,
coffee over tea,
skies white clouded
over
all clear, unadulterated uni-tone,
blondes, brunettes, redheads,
even pink or blue haired,
well, ain't going there
(wink wink,
too smart for that...)

but that's just me

colors viral virulent  over manhattan grey~black,
a good Pinot over a glass of Jack,
beach and sea undefined
over lake delimited, outlined bounded,
ocean caught fresh over farm raised,
city slick over country sweet,
striped bass over monk,
tuna bests salmon,
but both miso coated please...

Italian Indian Ethiopian
Sushi and occasionally Chinese,
all grand,
but my kosher deli and dogs, pickles,
yellow mustard ball parked,
tops them all
especially when serving
all-you-can-eat
over tasting portions...

but that's just me

right over left,
naked better than ****,
polite over rude,
Rembrandt tops Vermeer,
but his light nonethess,
extra over ordinarie...

Swiss over white American,
Gruyere beats goat cheese,
citrus tops apples,
sweet melon my
secret passion,
paprika and oregano,
never ever cilantro,
milk over OJ,
especially, grade A
milk of human kindness,
all flavors

love my poems centered,
(except for this one)
with no sugar added,
but a lot of cream and sweat,
both a necessity, not a luxury,
prefer mesmerizing,
crafting hard, laboring,
me writing, you imbibing,
leaving you oohing and loving
me
because of the appreciation built in
over
ditties that are semisweet
sugar nadas that populate the
easy come easy go away
poem of the day

but that's just me

like myself hard
cause when I melt,
to a child's grin shyest,
laughter silly me provoking
it is ever so better so...
tears, any kind, don't mind
laughing and sorrowing pouring,
let genuine be my only test
speed limit barrier unlimited

sorta saved a street crossing
phone-occupied-woman yesterday,
put my arm across her body
fast hard, unasked
so she wasn't
bicycle crashed,
both looks well received,
the *** and the gratitude,
but latter over former,
if I had to choose,
but I dont

but that's just me

Joanie M. over Judy C.,
Amy over Adele,
Eva Cassidy over all...
Zombies over Beatles,
Blunt over Taylor,
Rhyming Simon over Billy Joel,
no typos over flaring,
glaring no caring...

your poetry over mine,
cause it amazes,
cause mine,
just old familiar crazies,
just runaround Sues from yester pester days,
transcribed for a someday later
future grimacing laugh of
good god did I write that!

but that's just me

wrote quite the many
literary escapades
this morning,
like the yore,
good old days,
when every glance,
remark passing
made me run
to tablet them
in perpetuity ASAP

placed them before you
scattered thither and dither,
like all that jazz notes
running hands over planes geometric,
most just average,
but all there in hopes
you would love me better

but that's just me

sneaking inside you with
a wink, a tink-ering whimsy,
a stupid smile, a wicked sinning
humongous grinning
with a belly laughing,
havoc raising, me crazing,

*but that's just me

In this tightly interwoven
tapestry of
           silks and cottons
softness upon stems
an intricately-*****
                     journey
manifesto of life
        I find myself in
patchwork landscapes
of ochre and
rust turning
           turquoise
earthern shades
of cumin and cardamom
cloves and coriander
piquant red of paprika
alighting the senses
My fingers reach out
to sift the powder
to crush
fragrant fronds
of fresh basil and oregano
upon the blueprint of tips
allow their scent
to permeate my skin
and infuse tissue
                of tongue and lips
and I seem to be
in this
           bustling marketplace
my blood afire like
dried ghost pepper
searing and brightening
all flavors
fenugreek and asafoetida
to soothe the ache
of emptiness
chervil and chive
to get juices flowing
I want to slit open
vanilla pods
get at the beans
revel in their essence
wear it all over me


In this realm of spice
and paradise
I am flying,
a magic carpet of dreams
unrolling before me
like an unfurled flag
of new existence
The sounds of hagglers,
fading in raw visons
of shiny apple colors
olives piled high
textures of smooth cherry
budded broccoli
of walnut wrinkles
aroma of guava

Music takes over
I am in a cloud of
oud and lute
syncopated tabla
bells and rumbling
taut skin drum beats
Or is that long low whir
simply my heart purring
to the cadence of
       freedom's call?

I only know
that in the whisk
of a second's split
I will savor the flight
and also the
                fall

Just bought some capsicums
Big,round, fresh capsicums
Sweet and sour chicken in the menu
some fresh tomatoes, ginger and onions
A great recipe from mom's kitchen,
doesn't it sound and smell awesome?

green and red capsicums on the table
Take a sharp knife to cut them into halves
Paprika adds  flavor to my chicken recipe
The taste I must adore...

Surprise Surprise...  almost trip from the kitchen stool
A sharp knife falls on the kitchen floor
The green capsicums screams in despair...
" Are you really cutting me to pieces?"
And the red capsicums yell,
" Cut the greens not the reds?"
Is this my imagination ? Am I cooking in a dream?
capsicums can speak? Oh.. They really speak...
and pleading me to omit them from the recipe...
Again I look at the pretty capsicums..
Deciding whether to cook them or not

To capsicum I offer this thanks,
when needing something like peppers
It's you I very much adore,
Without, this recipe is lacking in so many ways.

Decided! In mom's kitchen
There is no compromise
Pretty capsicums green and red...
In my cooking *** you go.....

L’épicerie «Mozabite» d’Akbou

S’il y a un lieu dont je me souviens,
C’est de l’épicerie d’Akbou,
située dans la rue centrale.
J’y accompagnais mes parents,
et pénétrais dans cette échoppe
avec tous mes sens en éveil,
surtout pour humer les senteurs mêlées
des jarres d’olive et de piments rouges.
L’épicier était Mozabite,
avec des pantalons bouffants.
Le roi des commerçants du lieu,
car dans l’espace resserré
jamais rien ne vous y manquait
dans cet incroyable fatras
où le «Mozabite» faisait ses choix.
vous tirant toujours d’embarras.
Il y avait des tonneaux d’olives
vertes ou noires dans leur saumure
avec ce goût qu’elles ont : «là-bas.»
et puis ces senteurs mélangées
de menthe, paprika, cumin
des parfums de fleur d’oranger.
et à la belle saison des dattes
pendaient les «reines» : «Deglet Nour»
Parmi toutes ces friandises
Il en est deux qui pincent mon coeur
Cette galette ronde et si tendre
la «Kesra» plus tendre que le pain.
et les sacs remplis de semoules
qui sont la base du «Couscous» Kabyle
Alors que l’agneau est son prince
Merci à l’épicier d’Akbou
qui sut si bien aiguiser nos sens.

Paul d’Aubin (Paul Arrighi)
Toulouse - février 2014.

demon in the bathroom mirror
last rock of crystal went missing
bulging eyes in my reflection
I didn’t like that
i couldn’t find crystal but i don’t ask
those guys actually saved my life.
two hours to billings, montana and the
prairie grass glistened in the
last minute Sunday morning sunlight
thanksgiving day drive.

designer machete and the wineberries
broken shabbat demarcation line
and i tried yet again to perform a task
to completion without getting distracted
screaming from the bathroom

‘i can’t hit a vein! I can’t hit a vein!’
water in the rig
miss crystal swimming in mine
Christ in the Cosmos
two plantains on the kitchen island in
a town house on west orange.
no man is an island
but I pretended that i was so
i could finally climb the double helix home.

i  can’t be creative if i’m always in
a mad rush.
‘Prove to me your value! Justify your being here,
can you see me? Why can’t anyone see me?
how about now?’
tongue caught in a snare
pestilence in the mason jar
smoked paprika in the finish
water in the rig
‘Jordan? Was there even anything in here?’

i used to lay prostrate on the
couch
ad infinitum.
one thing they don’t tell you is that when
you’re dope sick you have to take
a giant **** about every five minutes.
the free cable in the apartment complex
actually saved my life.
furniture - mid century modern -
had to let it go.
hadn’t really listened to music in 18 months
besides pop country radio stations
‘i got that summertime, summertime sadness’
ad infinitum.
somehow I had decent pair of headphones and
a small, black verizon smartphone circa July 2013.
‘do what you want, what you want with my body…’
Lady Gaga actually saved my life that day.

demon in the ikea medicine cabinet mirror
giant rock of crystal
missing
water in the rig
‘was there even anything in there?!?!?!’
the mirror reflected back to me a stranger’s eyes
mirror is another name for a stranger's eyes.
i tabernacled in the high desert plains,
Sheridan, Wyoming - powder river country.

i felt the God-force emerge yesterday
up and outward from deep within my belly.
but today i’m fussing over straw-men
in plaster-of-paris suits
and i ate tortured beef at a
diner in Leesport, PA
and I can’t turn back into the man I was
no matter how hard I try.

so now I sit before
the most holy apostle St. Jude
located at Our Lady of Fatima Grotto
across the street from Kings College, Wilkes-Barre, PA.
‘The quickest way to Hell are the temptations of the flesh, exclamation point.’
i came here to reclaim my value but
i can’t seem to find it anywhere.

i keep getting flashbacks of the water in the rig
and the screaming from the bathroom and
if i didn’t tell somebody about this i was probably
going to *****.

3 cheers for the Black Madonna and
the big surrender.
i’ve swallowed so many shadows by now
that i don’t recognize myself in the mirror
or in your eyes.
but my body is a christmas tree and
from the branches i hang
plastic tinsel and
crystals and
broken timing chains
and a cedar wood mala.

I see that Christ is always pointing to
his sacred heart
but no one ever told me that
the anahata chakra had a back door.
no wonder sometimes I feel like i’m a
hydrogen bomb welded inside a lead casket.
someone open the ******* door and
let some light in.

the sun doesn’t rise from the west
and there is no rest for the weary and
to this day I act like that wasn’t only
water in the rig.

Once upon a mealtime
When salt had gone away
He had left in such a hurry
And with no sub to work his day

Poor pepper started panicking
Mostly missing his dear mate
But also with a worry
If he alone would taste so great

So he soon sent out a message
To all the pots upon the shelf
'Partner needed quickly,
I can't dust dinner by myself'

So suddenly came rescue
In fact response was vast
The rest of all the condiments
Took triumph for him fast

First of course came ketchup
So used to being shared
But pepper didn't quite believe
That they would be best paired

Then came Mr Mayo
With a winning stance he stood
But too eager for the winning
Pepper didn't think him good

In butted boisterous barbecue
Believing there was no other
Unless there could be any left
Of his favourite sweet chilli brother

But pepper wanted neither
For he cared about this dish
And they came in heavy servings
Which wouldn't be salts wish

Still with plenty choice left
He looked upon his friends
Mustards, chutneys and pickles
Fine flavours they'd all lend

But then he heard herbs and spices
Who were giving a loud shout
'If you want salt not to be needed
Then you'd best not leave us out!'

This quickly made him realise
That the best friends he could make
Would come not squeezed all over
But served with a gentle shake

So he rounded up the shakers
But he wouldn't work them all
'You're right you'll help me nicely
But who mostly? It's your call'

The chilli taking charge of things
Addressed pepper with this test
'Well what is this dish we're warming
And we'll tell you what works best?!'

When they looked upon the oven hob
They saw mix of veg and meat
Chopped finely and frying in a pan
Slowly taking up the heat

So suddenly they knew now
Who would win the role to take
Cajun and paprika
A fine taste they surely make

So shaked upon the cooking
It was served with a success
No one need ever know
That peppers day had been a mess

So later in the evening
When salt stumbled his way home
His apologies were heartfelt
'I'll never leave you all alone'

But pepper soon forgave him
He said 'there, there, it's ok'
For now he knew the secret
Of how to cook in the best way

Basil, paprika, cold Hungarian goulash,
bleu cheese and stale cinnamon
coffee cake dominate
the taste of  your
mouth and skin;

it’s not because you are
slovenly that pulls me
into you, I am alone.

I remember your father
kicking in my womb.

The sunshine
fell on the floor

as if it were
worshiping me.

I felt just like I was
the ****** Mary or something

being told what was what

in some Renaissance
painting by some guy whose

name I can’t even
pronounce.

“Woah there...little one! ”
I said chuckling to the kicking.

“There’s still time enough...less of the rough stuff! ”
I tried to coax it into quietness.

“Don’t be in such...a hurry...I’ll still be here! ”
I smiled to it and myself.

Then I had breakfast of coffee
& scrambled egg & chives
with a little dill & paprika sprinkled on top.

Went on making baby
for all I was worth.

The paprika would explain
the red hair!

God...when it came...it was
a difficult birth.

Felt like a peach...split apart.

Beethoven came into the room
from some passing car radio

& then floated out again
as if he were gliding around
on his own notes.

I tried to follow
where the music was going

but it got entangled
in next door’s clothes line.

A pigeon walked up & down
the window sill

trying to look as if he was
very busy but he was only

passing time
&...poo!

“Shoo! ” I scolded it
and then wondered


what a pigeon would look like
in a *****.

Need a lot of changing!

I took a stray feather
from a pillow

balanced it on
my swollen belly

(God I was...huge!)    

& laughed
as it got kicked off.

“That’s my girl! ”
I grinned

‘cos I was
sure I was

having a girl

but instead
I was

having your father.

Always never knew where I was
with him.

He was always his own
person

even when he hardly even
existed.

Then when he handed me you
& I realised my baby’s had a baby

I just cried
& cried

...’till I
laughed.

I have no idea what to say. I don’t know what I believe in.

I do know what I don’t believe in, though.

I don’t believe in god. Or any salvation, really.
I don’t believe in sheltering opinions and coddling students. I don’t believe in censorship.
I don’t believe in the idea that we should teach by word of mouth instead of leading by example. I don’t believe in hitting children as a form of discipline.
I don’t believe in authority that abuses power in order to **** anything in their way.
I don’t believe in searching through your daughters text messages to find out if she’s in trouble in place of fostering a relationship that allows open communication with her so that she doesn’t need to hide.
I don’t believe in hanging threats over people’s heads in lieu of the things they have done when they were a different person.
I don’t believe in kicking people while they’re down by telling them that “someone somewhere out there has it much worse than you do.”
I don’t believe in hurting for everyone equally at the same time.
I don’t believe in painting my nails purple.
I don’t believe in vegetable juice.
I don’t believe in veganism.
I don’t believe in paprika or leprechauns either.
Hell, I don’t really believe in anything– and that, I can believe.

a hurdle to jump, she parsed
to pass through a season
and leap unsoiled through its shedding
a haunt of hemingway's
to whine against another want
oh!
as spring clamors for its own warmth
maybe needless, but i would ask
to spend whatever time
with faint regard of whatever time

paper person
paprika kaleidoscope
papaya yahoo!
papa papoose
papacy cyan

"you sack of crap,"
i spit, broken cigarette clamped between
my lips.
speeding by the rIver at maybe
or 60
street lamps whipping
by like faeries.
i'm drunk
we're all drunk
beer cans in the glovebox,
on the seats under us,
filling the car up to our ears,
filling the trunk,
i swerve and suddenly i'm home.
i clamber up stairs,
throw the door open
collapse on my bed
and pass out.
and that's when i dream
these visions come to me
of grinding teeth, flames, screaming
there's a beautiful woman, completely naked
but instead of human legs she's got horse's legs
"what the ****,"
i say to here,
"let's get goin"
and she says
"you'd take any woman that could fog a glass, wouldn't you?"and i say
"no, just ones with horse legs"
and then i wake up. it's morning now.
i feel sick, hungry, hungover, tired,
and forget all about the ominous dream for the time being.
i put some eggs to boil
i go outside and have a cigarette
and while i'm sitting there i remember that night
there was a bunch of people, and drinking
speeding through space time,
what strangeness this all is.
all humans,
some of us drink to forget
but
i drink to remember.
it's metaphysical, it's important,
more important than
money or what the **** ever.
i go back inside
i run cold water, peel the eggs,
it's difficult, the shell keeps pulling off
chunks of egg with it. i get frustrated and
spit
"sack of crap,"
and take a bite of the egg.
mouth full of shell shards, cutting my gums,
the egg wasn't fully cooked. i pour mustard and
paprika on it anyway and eat it.
i get the sense that my life is a metaphor but
instead of thinking about it i go get drunk.