The Foodie

Is tagged in more photos
of food on facebook than
pictures of himself

 

 

 

 

You all know this guy. Less of a hipster and more Epicurean. A hedonist. A believer of the moment but worried about sustainability. He talks loudly and brags on his heirloom tomatoes (as he should, they are delicious). Undoubtedly, he likes dive bars, Bourdain, foie and uni. What else would you need to know?

Happy

Happy chefs make shitty food.

Took a moment to admire a potato chip. Imagine if this were sculpted form marble or glass, look at the details, it would be called art.

J.C.

Every martyr bites at his nails

Miguel, recent fiftyish

Hurricane Sandy is coming, I’ve bought some water and canned goods for the few days. The flooding should be fun, right? Thank god I’m on the second floor.

Confession: I really do not have the patience for prose. I try it from time to time but I find it to be so much more…lengthy and you can’t jump around like you can with poetry. At least, not in my limited experience.

But occasionally I get bit by this bug and I try again to write prose and I get something like this.

Miguel, recent fiftyish

There was light now. So much of it. Buckets of the stuff, spilling over everything. Overflowing the potted plants. It wasn’t divine, he’d had enough of the boxes and bibles. Just more of it, like his eyes were permanently dilated.

            Miguel, recent fiftyish woke up and got dressed. He trimmed his beard, affectionately deemed the eternal smile. He showered. He shat. He ate breakfast at work after service was underway and moving smooth. Not at home. Not like normal people, whoever they are. He left Mary sleeping. He kissed her head and locked the front door.

            The surgery went well enough that he could drive without glasses. Bruce B Downs. Right turn, loop and park. 6 days a week. Even if its just around the corner, it matters to him. The size of his victories are inversely proportional to his age.

            His smiles migrated back and nested in his root canal. The wonder was slowly seeping back into his blood stream. telling his boss no was the same yawn it always was. Content was the word he’d looked up. He felt content. At this point, when he was praying he didn’t really know who or what he was praying to. Was he thanking deaf or non-existent ears? Maybe. But it wouldn’t matter either way. It needed to be said, this much he knew, even if it was only to hear these words as a mantra. Convinced there isn’t enough grateful in the universe and he’s just putting out what he hopes to get back. Why go to church when god is everywhere?

            The meals are balanced now. Less meat, less carbs, more greens. Less sugar but he’s still using that Splenda shit. Pricking his fingers.

            Its getting colder so now he’s beating the sun to work. Even the universe takes time for a smoke break while man toils away. On time. Lets see a god go through this. Strip the title and power and let it step into this humanity. Lets see what a god is really made of or does that kind of power defang the desire to live?

            He never imagined this growing up. Why would you? No one dreams of paperwork. Victories and honor. Battles. Like changing the world was just a set of double a’s away. Women and kingdoms are the dreams of the young. Now he dreams of dinner. He dreams of jam sessions on the weekend. He wakes to a second wife and a king sized bed. His world is small enough to hug now. And he does.

            He starts his work. He makes the rounds. He sees his son. A sun. All the woulds he could never be. So many weres he was. Standing there, facial hair, looking Dad straight in the eye. From a seed to a tree with branches that could hold the sun some days.

            The son, a sun, a son suddenly aware of the mirror he’d been growing into. Scrooge dumbstruck at the gravestone and the coffin shaped like a bed. A mouthful of I told you so. A mouthful of fritatta, a gulp of extra pulp. Conversations with a stranger.

            Plates cleaned. Seconds. Mouths wiped.  Napkins crumbled. And pictures, side by side, chests out, shoulders back and smiling. A future and a past paused for a moment. A gift to be grateful for.

            The son left, the sun followed suit. He went home to his second wife and his king sized bed and had dinner. He exercised on his home-made-all-in-one gym. He played some piano. He smiled and took a shower, smoked a little weed. He kissed her on the neck. She loved him. He loved her. For the first time, in a long time, maybe even ever, he felt like he was enough.

Write Back Soon

Cement

A quick one, I normally post poems on the other blog, but, eh, why not?

Its called

Cement

 

just like the question of sanity

the question of love

once asked

cements the answer

immediately

Write Back Soon

We held the summer

New piece. Called We held the summer.

            We held Miami the way Miami holds the summer. Is this new? Feels new. Feels great. Feels like a landscape painted on the back of my eye lids. New socks fresh from the dryer. The radio sucks less.

            We held the summer like a greasy burger. Like those games of slurp and burp we played with prying eyes and knuckle meat on mornings where we both had more important things to worry about. I can’t remember what though. Laundry? Ambition? Rent? Insert  (here)      ____________      _____________. But those things never held in my memory. Not sitting in class. Not the x y or z of what I did when I was high. I can blur every day from the restaurant into one frame. But I got a photo album out of you. From North Florida to it’s most southern point. You won’t believe me and I don’t expect you too.

           

            So quiz me.

            _____________________________________________________________?

           

            a.   _________________________

            b.__________________________

            c.__________________________

            d.__________________________

 

            We held the summer like a Polaroid. When we were both knee deep in dreams I’m only still half convinced were our own. But how can you ever be sure of something like that? Will we paint the past gold? How warped will our weres be? It’s all hindsight to the days we stayed glued to those doors we’d wouldn’t forget to lock again. Valuable lesson. Dinner and movies in bed. My hands around your neck. Belts and blind folds. Curious, young. Vibrators small enough to get stuck in–Oh damn…We’ll both learn that college tuition can be a lousy investment before this is all over. And loyalty for the sake of loyalty isn’t noble. It’s stupid, i.e. honor thy mother and father.  i.e. Eden. blind. We held on as if it were a storm to weather while we broke almost everything in sight. Break chairs, break bonds, break hearts and cars but never a promise. Never a promise.

            We held the summer like a bag of legos. Building up our laughs inch by sacred inch into monuments; matched only by how naively we jumped in. Death to all the first impressions we dragged through the dirt and the petty arguments we pulled over our feet and into our shoes, stuck under our soles. Every step an aggressive syllable. What good will come of this? Art? Pfffffft. Synonyms: Driftwood, feather dust. Helium. Bring something worth weighing to the table.

            We held the summer like a mirror to smash. I am hands and nothing more. You are Monday morning spent torn and mourning a cat. You are a breath too big to ever fully exhale. You are cliff notes to the world. You are a savior. Move on is the prescription but we’re a pair of junkies and can’t-let-gos. We fit into each other like splinters.

            We held the summer like a ticking bomb or a .38. We were strung out hollering about our cracked walls. Biting back at good sense. Little woe-is-me’s afraid of inadequacy and lightning. Hypocrites. Traitors. Judas at his most human. And this is where we both were ready to give up almost anything in exchange for acceptance. This is what those shitty radio songs cry about. So sick. Ne-yo, you bitch. Not so easy now is it? Despite all that logic dispensed so easily, leisurely, wizened before. Where’s that level head of yours? Go ahead dumbass, try and think your way out of a heart. We’ll watch. We’ll laugh.

            We held the summer like vultures. I stood between a kettle and a volt. Awake awaiting a wake. Vultures. Me: washing dishes. You: peeking where I buried my screams. Vultures circling. You found the venom I’d drained. I should have thrown it out. Vultures feeding. Smashed porcelain and sunflowers. Me stumbling through the night, calling your name. Vultures. Why? Fuck. Vultures. You locked the door, went to bed alone. Let me in shivering before the neighbors got up with eyes like Vultures.

            We held the summer at arm’s length. Counting pros and cons on fingers and adding rights and wrongs on toes. Trying to measure the rights within reach with a ruler. What kind of fight is fair? What depth do I need to sink to be convincing? How can I fix this? Then along comes the ‘got back together with’ then along comes the marriage as sudden as a status change.

            We held the summer like two one hundred dollar bills; obvious value, lacking substance. I wanted him to be an asshole. I kept wanting him to lean over and brag on how he fucks you better than I ever could. I wanted a reason to storm out mad. To punch him in the eye and slam doors. Temper tantrums. Ash and echoes and good bye. But I guess that’s always been my problem. Needing permission. I wanted him to give me a look I could take wrong (did our eyes ever meet?). Or squeeze your ass in front of me. Something.

            We held the summer, waiting, praying it wasn’t all gravity and books we’d read before. I kept wanting to be an asshole. To march up to you and kiss you like we used to, crushing teeth, trying to merge our atoms a little. Silently howling into eachother’s lungs, hoping something would get lodged or hooked. To convince the both of us that we weren’t a one way street. Like there was hope for me…we…Like it was my turn to be human. I wanted to pull your hair and grab your neck. Or squeeze your ass when he wasn’t looking. Something.

            We held the summer the same way children do. I kept hoping you would be an asshole. To sneak onto the couch with me in the middle of the night and whisper how much more huggable I am or how much better in bed I was. To say it wasn’t the same. Tell me it was alright, that it was real. To tell me maybes and what ifs, look back at old photos like mirrors for a moment.  Scratch my head before heading to bed. Or squeeze my ass when he wasn’t looking. Something.

            But I’m a gentleman and he’s a gentleman and you’re no asshole. This isn’t a movie. No fingers to properly point. No villains. Not even antagonists. Just Protagonists predicted to the intersections. Some of us get to go left and others have to go right. From black and white to grey. Ambiguous. Slush. Grey. Blurs. Enigma. Doubt. Grey. Second guessing. Grey. I came and left without drama like I always do. Grey, grey. God damn grey.

            We held the summer like dusty bodega prego. At 22, I can’t even have a mid-life existential crisis right. Quietly drowning in the sea I’ve been filling up for years. Bubbles blurbing out of habit, barely verbing at all, just enough to convince me docile, awaiting rescue. Waiting in line. My turn soon, right? Wrong form? Back of the line again? My turn soon right? I don’t feel mature, I feel tame. They’re not the same. I’m a movie cliche, directorless, begging to be told cut; a C-list actor stuck in character, two dimensional and anxious.

            We held the summer like our favorite ice cream. Or was it Gelato? Guilty pleasures. Something should have changed. Your eyes should have dulled. My trust should have halted but I just opened more. Silence should have wedged its way in between us like a Great Dame. But it didn’t. PB & J. Peas and carrots. Our voices still played duets on xylophones of laughs. This can’t be right. When the fuck am I supposed to start hating you?

            We held the summer like a pair of jumper cables. A missing glove. Ihop. A freshly painted apartment. a death cab. River rafts. IHop. A drive to Tennessee and back. Love notes that never used that overrated word. Cherrywood. Hazel headlights. Collins Ave. IHop. IHop. Recee’s peanut butter cups. IHop. Arizona. A Colt 45 and two zig zags. Nemesis. Cunt. Key west. Graduation. Hoodies and coffee. Weed and togas. The edge where dreams commit suicide. Paint rags and amaretto bread pudding.

            We held the summer steady in it’s surrender. We both know tomorrow will be too much for us. But we learn slowly, heavy with expectations. Always with expectations of something beautiful. Something better. Steadier. Permanent. Give up on the past, its far too heavy for your neck. Crush my bruises into a pipe I can learn to play. Tear my hair out until I’m essential and bare. This surrender of reason is reason to surrender. But to what?

Write Back Soon

Keep off the grass

Happy Labor day to all. A holiday that began to celebrate the working class. Give them a day off. Retailers have to work today, maybe even harder but, boo hoo, its retail, they’ll be fine.

wrote this piece a short time ago. I was enjoying some jazz on the Great Hill in Central Park when I started it.

Anyway, this one is called Keep off the grass.

She sings loud, talks less, the music comes first. Guitar twangs. Bumping bass.  A cymbal cries out. The lyrics are young. The songs, simple, with a force behind them that stands tall and unbending. Her voice is dressed in a crisp white fedora only a woman, a mother, can wear. A voice laced with scars. From R&B to blues. From blossoms to roots. Always back to the roots. Down to the aquifers that fed the wells we stole from. Still thirsty.

It don’t mean a thing
If it ain’t got that swing. Do wap do wap do wap do wap do wap do wap do waaah.

There always comes a point where words fall short. Where a definition is not enough. Move to something more primal. Beyond boxes and dictionaries, seeking  only sounds. To say it perfectly as a shape without a border. But remember, perfection is not a color, its a shade. Scatting her doo daas on stage. Not everything needs sense. After all, dogs smile more than we do, even when leashed. Her voice belongs to a woman in love, not with anything as temporary as a man or trivial as success, just in love with the scene, the music, people. Ready to share the stage with the sax blaring and belting.The high hat tapping like a tongue against two front teeth.

somebody play something, make me feel good!

Slow it down. Catch some breath. More for her than us. She needs a breath. The bass strumming it’s bouncing bum bum bum. Of course. Love songs. Candy. Dandy. You are mine and I am yours. All the way. Groovy man. Love. Plain and simple. Hippie shit. Why keep an ego?  Does it ever provide decent company? Does it?

Who’s got chicken? I need some chicken–save me a wing.

Her hearts been broken, you can hear it in her voice. The human. A crazy glue heart mosaic plastered behind her ribs. She put it back together her way. With the upside downs flipped right side out but it’s hers. Right or wrong, probably both. Ally-cat. She sings like she’s got a hurricane in her lungs. New Orleans dancing behind her molars.

Blues deal with the human condition

You want proof she’s having a good time? Listen to her tear up the Flintstones. That’s right, the Flintstones. Fucking up the Yabba dabba doos with Billie and Etta roaring out her open throat. What a gay old time. Keep it up. I need a trip out of here for a few minutes. To somewhere built from sounds; skies of melodies and bluesy riff oceans. Somewhere where I can bleed at my own pace for while whether it be in ink or blood. Somewhere nostalgic. Somewhere  like the roads we grew up on, wasted so much time on. Somewhere the world is burning to ash, beginning the crash, but for now all we have is the music and the way it feels in our skin for those who bleed on stage and into our ears and for we, who watch and listen, relaxing in the field feeling the soft fluffy grass, reminding all who lay on it, what lawns are for and the disgustingly cruel, mocking, absurd nature of ‘keep off the grass’.

write back soon

A friend of mine suggested “Onion” but I don’t know…

Any ideas?

Great Jazz on the Great Hill. Central Park.

This is a cool event. Happens every year apparently. In central park no less. Great way to spend an afternoon. Lounging on the nice grass, listening to some great musicians i.e. this year: Alyson Williams and Wycliffe Gordon. Both fantastic jazz musicians. I had a great time.

I was feeling writey, so I wrote this little piece , it’s called  Keep off the grass.

She hardly talks, the music comes first. Guitar twangs. The songs are simple. The lyrics young. But her voice is dressed in a crisp white fedora only a woman, a mother, can wear. A voice laced with scars. From R&B to blues. Always back to the roots. There always comes a point where words fall short. Move to something more primal. Beyond boxes and dictionaries, seeking only sounds. Emotion. Scatting her doo daas on stage. Not everything needs sense. After all, dogs smile more than we do, even when leashed.

Her voice belongs to a woman in love, not with anything as temporary as a man or trivial as , just in love with the scene, the music, people. Ready to share the stage with the sax blaring and belting.The high hat tsts like a tongue against the two front teeth.

somebody play something, make me feel good!

Slow it down. Catch some breath. The bass strumming it’s bouncing bum bum bum. Love songs. Candy. Dandy. You are mine and I am yours. All the way. Love. Plain and simple. Why keep an ego?  Does it ever provide decent company?

Who’s got chicken? I need some chicken. Save me a wing.

Her hearts been broken, you can hear it in her voice. The human. A crazy glue heart mosaic plastered behind her ribs. She put it back together her way. Ally-cat. She sings like she’s got a hurricane in her lungs. New Orleans booming from her voice box.

Blues deal with the human condition

You want proof she’s having a good time? Listen to her tear up the Flintstones. Fucking up the Yabba dabba doos with Billie and Etta roaring out her open throat. We, who watch and listen, relax in the field feeling the soft fluffy grass, reminding all who lay on it, what lawns are for and the disgustingly cruel, mocking, absurd nature of ‘keep off the grass’.