rumination house 

gumbo mumbo-jumbo

making favorite recipes into poems. gumbo is a se texas/la new year tradition.


when one makes a seafood gumbo
first procure a stewpot, jumbo
sized. and the holy trinity
of onion, bell pepper, celery.
to the market for crustaceans;
dispatch them with proper ministrations.
separate body from shell, in manner caesarian
out of sight of persons vegetarian.
as to this meat, refrigerate,
while stock materials you congregate.
into pot throw shell and claw
of crab, oyster and fish-(craw),
or shrimp if mudbug you have not,
then also throw into that pot
a bell pepper, seeded, and some grease
(i use canola-- but most like beast),
a carrot, some celery, an onion or two.
don't fuss-- coarsely chopped will do.
bay leaves-- two-- and garlic cloves- four;
cayenne, enough to make one roar,
now basil, thyme and oregano.
while it simmers, turn on the radio
to Bodreaux on Monroe's KJUN;
you can two-step while the roux's begun.
here's the hard part-- listen well:
if you burn the roux, it's gone to hell.
take one part oil, to one part flour
in a heavy skillet, stir a quarter hour
til the color's gone coffee au lait
(or darker if you're of cajun sway).
put it aside in a little jar;
stock needs three hours, or four.
spend the time how you like best:
listen to "slow soup" if you need suggest-
ions. after stock has made a lovely smell
get a colander; strain it well.
in a skillet: holy trinity, diced;
a pound of okra, freshly sliced,
two more bay leafs and some salt
(tears if you wish-- but it's no one's fault)--
some savory, more oregano;
saute it up ala Thibedeaux.
when the onions start to clear
the time for gumbo's getting near.
best to start a pot of rice.
any kind's fine; basmati's nice.
throw the saute in with the now-strained stock
crank up Beausoleil, hide the clock.
scour the cabinets for the file'
(sassafras to you not out creole-way)
and put in in along with the roux
to thicken up this tasty stew.
throw in tomatoes, paste and diced,
simmer till the rice is riced.
last minute throw in the crustratoens
and begin thankful prostrations.
dish some rice into your bowl
ladle on gumbo and let the good times roll.

for while this may be bad poetry
it's one hell of a good recipe.

the trouble with empathy

i feel all of it.
the last stare of the lonesome boy,
the tug of the homeless.
the way things go when nothing works at all.

in a mall, it's like a wall of tvs,
satellite ones, 300 channels.
no one speaks the same language
and everyone is understood.
there is much too much noise.

i try to avoid the crowded places.
everyone is afraid.
they don't talk about it--
they make a smell,
like ten thousand plants cut open.

some people think that smells like dinner.
i know better.
we all are way too open--
some cracked, some shining.

once i stopped listening.
twenty days i kept everything in me
closed, like a fist.
nothing entered, and nothing hurt.
i was so very very lonely.

puddle to worm

puddle to worm
------------------------------------------
temptress i don't mean to be--
i just happened to find
myself here, in your sticky
path. cool, yes, and wet;
spreading out before you--
my edges slide you in,
a drunken greeting,
just like the easiest
way home. and then you
overstay your welcome:
becoming besotted,
larger than life. you won't
leave me now. the margins
between us become thinner
and thinner, until they blur
and disappear.

the rumi house

> the rumi house

it's this little place out highway 80, near burns. for recovering purple prosers. you can go on your own, but most of them got sent by their editors, or their wives, like that. from the highway you can hardly see it, and it doesn't look like much. a rancher, one of those ubiquitous ones from the 50's. no garden to speak of, just some boxwood shrubs out front. view of-- the highway. cal's tow
yard. the flat, tired west oregon sky. no endless granduer, and that's part of the plan, see. teach those people to talk normal. see normal. be normal.

it's only a 6 step program-- otherwise they try to fit it into a sonnet or something. first thing is: get rid of your books. no pens, pencils, ratty-ass journals allowed. they check. no whiskey.

the first few days are hell.

tuesday

Date: Tue Apr 23, 2002 9:27 am
Subject: tuesday
the poet woke up, one leg at a time, slippered his feet. eventually robed. coffee, good and bitter, in a sweet old cup. morning has broken, and what does he look like, a plumber? so be it. if he must fix things, he will. in simple ways, not too much nonsense, emotion or longing. this piece seems to fit here all right. this other piece is sticking out some but we can ignore that. the parts are good enough, what does it matter that perhaps they were meant for other things. it conducts water, it's plumbing,right?

the fried egg is a little too runny, but returned to the pan, becomes a little too hard. it's difficult to get things just right. one could worry this bit of not-news to death. instead, pass the salt, and what nature doth not provide, lots of pepper will cover. is this good? it's not the breakfast of champions, but we have nothing to prove anymore. we make do.

the poet ambles to the door, to the porch, where the sad sad paper, little more than a leaflet really, contains everything necessary to break a heart. reading between the lines, one finds out context is all. here's what we say, here's what we don't say, here's what we say we aren't going to say anymore. the mourning doves dole out their version, the morning glories peep up expectantly as he walks back in.

here's to finding places. here's to morning. here's to what is and what won't be. here's looking at you, kid.

what i noticed

there's a man with a hatchet face, even though he's a vegan. he's got a radio playing paul simon, and in his hand is a flower, and the flower is dead, but that's not his fault, he found it that way. in his hat is a feather. the feather points his way to heaven, and his nose points his way to me, and he always follows his nose. his shoes point towards each other; when he was young his mother was
advised to brace his legs, and although he braces himself for everything else, his mother had too much to think about at the time, and so at least his toes want to be together. they are friendly that way. sometimes this makes him stumble, which he views as a metaphor, because secretly he'd like to be a poet, but the truth is he works with numbers, because he'd really really like to believe in truth, and with numbers everything should work out in the end. when he gets here i am going to tell him a story, and each of you will be in it, disguised as equations so as not to alarm him, and he will grow all dreamy like, like i do when we are together, and figure things out.

comfort blues

cowritten with elsemore


Comfort Blues
-------------
When there's mist all up in the mountain
you can't even see the top,
when someone's lying bleeding
you can't nowhere find a cop,
but when your poor heart's broke & hurtin'
you know someday it's bound to stop -
Just got to move all free and easy
over cold & slippery time.

When your hands are weak and shaking
and your head is poundin' hard
and your key don't fit your lock
and your clothes'r all 'round the yard,
don't damn the man 'cross the table
'cause he had the luck to draw your card -
Let the days rain down like lonely words,
for the years to arrange as rhyme.

You never been down to Yellowstone
here the world one day will end
your dreams are like a dark-haired woman
who says she just wants to be your friend,
but somethin'll come along sometime
upon which you can depend -
ain't nothing, you're just on fire,
you got to learn to drop & roll.

You think you'd never get up at all
if you just could go to bed
& that wheel keeps stoppin' on black,
& your chips are all sittin' on red,
don't worry much on it mister
you're only sad in your head -
Dont listen to me, I'm a liar,
but you're happy down in your soul.

Just got to move all free and easy
over cold & slippery time.
Let the days rain down like lonely words,
for the years to arrange as rhyme.
Ain't nothing, you're just on fire,
you got to learn to drop & roll.
Don't listen to me, I'm a liar,
but you're happy down in your soul.

I never was any good at foolin
my friends, let alone my heart
I've been waiting for the next chapter,
waiting for the part
where the bad guy finishes last
and the good guy gets to start
But that only works in Hollywood
where you finally get an end

I'm going to get a little place in the county
old house with a sleeping porch
where i can dream on the long summer days
when all the sun can do is scorch
i'll dig myself a little pond
just deep enough to douse this torch
Carrying water, chopping wood
If I'm not happy, I'll pretend

manifesto

manifesto````````3/01

down, down with sensible shoes!!! here's to tottering heels and slides of faux leopard.
here's to eating with our fingers, to juice dribbling down chins
to old women who dance and have riotous gardens.
here's to staying up much too late, just to have the time alone
and to valentines, sent to strangers who please us.
"dear waitress with the pointy glasses and the tattoo of a fly on your ankle,
please accept this token of my esteem for your blissful grin and the way you balanced the smoothies, and for being nice to my dad, who was drunk and nervous."
down, down, with noises that incite reasonable persons to violence-- cell phones in toilets, that white guy making millions rhyming about raping his mother,
suits in meetings talking "proactive" and "players at the table", all whining, especially mine.
up, up with the right kind of noise-- old fiddlers, rocks in water, giggling persons of most any age, heartsongs and truths told happily.
here's to rhythms we find in the everyday, here's to the extra we find in
the ordinary.

song of the valdez

call me fish kill.
i spill my essence over the
waters, leave deadly irridiscence
there. not every color wash
will brighten things. the flash
of my teeth should warn you:
some smiles hold promise,
some promiscuity, some
profess confessions
when there's no sorrow there
at all. i'm all over that now.
it's a clever venture i'm
proposing, offering up for
cover a rainbow that smothers,
a leaky piece of
the beautiful
ugly.

The Dream of What Might Be

The Dream of What Might Be came out with the rare sun one day, looking for possibilities. The Dream of What Might Be looked for company, looked outside itself and in places where no one had bothered to look for years; The Dream opened doors sealed with paint, turned over stones cemented in by mud, unwrapped brown packages full of old letters tied with twine that had been secreted away in attics. The Dream of What Might Be said to the Dream of What's Not let's take to hills, let's tear off our clothes, let's yell like heathens and dance like drunken angels; let's go lie down over there for a bit, six minutes, tops. The Dream of What Is came tearing out, needing to see what the ruckus was about. The Dream of What Is and The Dream of What's Not tried to talk sense to the Dream of What Might Be, but the Dream of What Might Be was blown up with magic and nothing could fit there. The two other dreams grew stern, then pale, in the face of the relentless onslaught of impossible suggestions and ridiculous scenarios; they begged, they pleaded but the Dream of What Might Be had no taste for reason, and taking first one, then the other began to sing to them intricate songs, a weaving of sound that dizzied them, until they forgot their own names, and began to believe.