Your mother was an alcoholic who burned down
your family’s home. I always saw so much of myself in her.

That night she wandered away from where we were all watching
the fireworks, and your father’s frantic shouts for her sounded

like battle cries, I swore I would never break a man beneath
a sky on fire. I swore I would be your blood and no clot.

The night you said you didn’t love me anymore
I slapped you across the face.

When I tell the story I am always an exploding shell.
In truth, I asked you and you said, ok. Ok, go ahead.

My girlfriend Maia just moved to town and have become a regular at our Shabbat dinner table. Since she's a vegetarian, I've been looking for meals that either don't need meat (I get tired of fake meat replacement...) or can easily have meat added to them. I thought of one of my favorite soups, muligatawny.

Conveniently, Madher's recipe for chicken mulitgatawny called only for chicken broth as a base and then chunks of chicken to be cooked separately and added in later. I simply replaced the chicken broths with vegetable broth and pulled out a bowl for Maia before I added in the chicken.

Let me start by saying how outragously simple this soup is. Broth, lentils and tumeric. That's it for the first half hour. Then you just ad two small (and when I say small, I mean plum-sized) potatoes that have been pealed and diced and cook for another half hour. That's it. The vegie broth must have really made a different because even at this point the soup was rocking! For those who are curious, I used College Inn brand veggie broth.

I cooked the chicken chunks with garlic and ginger paste, some spices and a little watter to simmer. I added lemon juice to the soup, pureed it, and pulled out Maia's portion. I dumped in the chicken and juices and that was it. It was a big hit. I had forgotten to take a picture before I dished it out, but this is all that was left in the pot.

At the begining of my cooking adventure, my timing was all off. I had no idea how to prep or plan for these dishes. But on this night, my game was flawless. I cooked not one, note two, but FIVE dishes from the book.

The rice was just the basic basmati rice recipe so no need to say much there. Rice, water, butter, boil, done.

I had some kale to use up so I made the kale saag recipe. Though it called for two dried red chillies and three fresh green chillies, it actually wasn't that spicy. It was less creamy thatn the spiniach saag I'm used to ordering at Indian restaurants. That may have something to do with the kale having much woodier stems that I neglected to spend the 30 minutes slicing from the leaves.

I wanted something with crunch to accompany this otherwise very mushy meal so I made fried cashews, which really are just that. Cashews dumped in hot oil, fried until they have a nice tan, drained and then seasoned generously with salt and pepper. I was a big fan of these in my soup. Geoff was a big fan of these period. He finished about 50% of the entire dish on his own...

For desert, I made drunken orange slices. This has to be one of the simplest and most delightful desert ideas ever. Slice oranges, sprinkle with ciniamon and let it sit until you're ready to serve. Drizzle with Grand Mariner. Eat. I had some heavy cream I wanted to use up so I added a dollop of whipped cream to each plate. Delish.

Yes people, 5 dishes. Not a clunker among them, all on the table by 8:30. AND I was at work all day. Boom.

So I decided to make dal, basically Indian lentils, because a) they're in the book, b) they are a big part of Indian cuisine, and c) I needed to make dinner with what we had in the house and there in my pantry sat a bag of red lentils.

I always mentally refer to dal as "dull" because the somewhat soupy, bland lentils are not my favorite. I made Madher's red lentis with cumin seeds and I will admit, it was better than I expected. It did have some good flavor, much of which was provided by the cumin seeds. Still, the leftovers from this dish sat uneaten in the fridge for a week and a half before I gave up on them.

Funny enough, red lentils actually turn yellow when you cook them.

This same night, I also found myself with a pound of cubed lamb that I had frozen several months ago. It was time to put it to use, but all the recipes in the Indian Home Cooking book called for 2lbs of lamb and had ingredients that were not easily halved. Wanting an Indian dish to complement my dull dal, I pulled out a new book that I was given as a gift.

The book, Cooking With My Indian Mother-in-Law, was given to me by a colleague who is Indian. When I told him about my cooking project (we gab about food often), he was really impressed that I was attempting dishes that even he and his wife don't make at home. On his last trip to India he brought me back a masala daba (basically a round tin with several cups used for storing spices) a gharam masala he particularly likes, and this book. He said his wife recommended it strongly.

The book is pretty charming in and of it self. It was written by an English guy who loves to cook. When he married an Indian woman, he and his new mother-in-law quickly bonded over their love of food. After years of coaxing, he convinced her to do a cook book with him. Every photo you see is of her hands peeling or chopping, her actual meal laid out on their kitchen table.

Anyway, I found a recipe for a lamb stew that only called for a pound of cubed meat. I happened to have everything else I needed already so yay for no extra tips to the market. On a side note, I was really stoked to find out that I now have such a well provisioned pantry that I can cook most dishes without trips to the market.

The lamb was outstanding, and it didn't take 3 hours to cook like some stew recipes. It called for a can of crushed tomatoes, which I normally have 20 of on hand, but somehow I'd run out. Good thing I had a bunch of fresh tomatoes and a food processor handy! I cooked up some rice, made a salad, opened a bottle of gruner veltliner (an awesome Austrian white varietal) and dinner was served!

Have to share... scroll down.

Rattle is proud to announce the winner of the 2009 Rattle Poetry Prize:

Lynne Knight, Berkeley, CA
for “To the Young Man Who Cried Out ‘What Were You Thinking’ When I Backed into His Car”

Honorable Mentions:

Michelle Bitting, Pacific Palisades, CA – “Mammary”

Carolyn Creedon, Charlottesville, VA – “How to Be a Cowgirl in a Studio Apartment”

Mary-Lou Devine, Niantic, CT – “Crabs”

Douglas Goetsch, Edmond, OK – “Writer in Residence, Central State”

David Hernandez, Long Beach, CA – “Remember It Wrong”

John Paul O’Connor, Franklin, NY – “Beans”

Howard Price, Morro Bay, CA – “Crow-Magnon”

Patricia Smith, Howell, NJ – “Birthday”

Alison Townsend, Stoughton, WI – “The Only Surviving Recording of Virginia Woolf’s Voice”

Emily Kagan Trenchard, Brooklyn, NY – “This Is the Part of the Story I’d Rather Not Tell”

For some unknown reason I have been the victim of emotional hallucinations for the past few weeks, rendering me unable and unwilling to believe that posting about cooking is worth it and that anyone cares to read about my kitchen exploits. So, this is a big old post with lots of stuff.

( Read about Indian comfort food... )

( Read about a vegetarian dish and fluffy, buttery rice... )( Just see a picture of my new haircut... )

After the failure of my first Indian bread making attempt I decided to give it another go and make naan, my favorite part of any Indian meal.

Madher does a good job explaining her technique for replicating a tandoor oven at home, so I wasn't too concerned with the baking process. It's actually pretty genius: heat the over to it's highest setting with a very heavy-duty baking sheet inside. You'll then slap the dough (And I do mean SLAP) on to the hot tray and stick it in the over for 3 minutes. Then you take it out of the oven and put it under the broiler for about 10 seconds to crisp up the top. That's it!

The book recommended 30 seconds under the broiler, but that made the naan too dark for my taste. I like my bread as close to dough as possible. In fact, next time I make it, I'll probably cook it in the over for closer to 2:30 minutes.

The dough itself was simple, but no low cal: yogurt, egg, oil, sugar, salt, yeast and flour. I was about 1/2 a cup of all-purpose flour short for what the recipe called for so I added in 1/2 a cup of sifted whole wheat flour. It actually gave the bread a great taste.

So yeah, you mix the dough and kneed it until it's smooth. It will be slightly sticky, but not unmanageable. I actually kneaded the dough right in the mixing bowl. After covering it and letting it rise for an hour, the dough hadn't yet doubled in size, but we were getting hungry and I had sworn we wouldn't be eating dinner at 10pm again.

The lamb was still cooking (more on that below) so I gave my self 30 minutes to bake all the naan. The dough was to be divided into 6 portions and eat one slapped on to the hot pan individually. I say slapped because really, the dough starts to cook the instant it hits that pan. You cannot move the thing. Slapping the oblong dough-patties on to the tray makes sure they don't get all bunched up. Hopefully. I only had one mishap.

With Geoff as my hot pan holder, I was able to slap up to 3 dough babies on to the pan at a time, so the baking process actually went very quickly. Realizing we still had about 15 minutes before the lamb would be done, we brushed the tops of our naan with some good olive oil and sprinkled them with sea salt. Then we ate a third of the whole batch while we waited for the lamb to finish...

The lamb dish was very good. It tasted like lamb cubes in saag paneer. It was actually really easy to prepare, now that my prep game is so tight. Check out my bowls. The small one in the bottom left corner contains all the spices that fry in the oil first. Then all the onions, garlic and ginger go in, then the lamb and all the stuff in the bowl on the bottom right of the photo, and then all the yogurt goes in one spoonful at a time.

Bu combining the groups of spices into bowls based on their order of operation I a) no longer run our of small prep bowls, b) no longer run out of counter space for keeping all the filled prep bowls, and c) no longer have to triple and quadruple check the cook book while stirring and trying to remember, was that the ground cumin or the coriander I just put in?

After all the bowls were empty, I just added two packs of drained frozen spinach and put the lid on the pan to let it simmer for an hour. All in all this was an excellent dinner that I anticipated would be a nightmare of logistics and failure that turned into a delicious rainbow of hope and joy for the world. And lamb.

Finally back from my 3 Weddings and Poetry Tour vacation. We had a blast, an exhausting blast, and are now settling back into much beloved New York Life. This also means more Indian food!

For our first Friday back in town we didn't want to do anything too fancy. The recipe for Haddock (though we used cod) Baked in a Yogurt Sauce was as simple as could be.

Slice up onions and scatter around the bottom of the pan.
Put pieces of fish on top of onions in a single layer.
Mix spices and oil into yogurt.
Pour yogurt over fish.
Bake at 350 for half an hour.

Pull out the fish and add the yogurt/sauce/mush to a sauce pan. Heat it until it boils.
Turn off the hear and drop in a few tablespoons of butter.
Pour the whole thing back over the fish.

Tadda! Dinner.

The fish was very tasty and still held up the next day. I definitely recommend serving this over rice, as there was a ton of extra sauce. It was more like a fish curry.

I also served the fish with some leftover mango salsa I had. The cool, crunch, spicy salsa worked really well with the creaminess of the fish.

Tonight I think I'm going to try mushroom poullau. That is, if I can remember to stop and buy some mushrooms. I wonder how close this dish is to peylau, the Trinidadian rice dish...

...will let you know soon.

So last week I made Everyday Chicken, frozen spinach with potatoes and butter rice for dinner.

The chicken was totally ok. The recipe is actually called chicken with fried onions but Madhur says that her children call it everyday chicken. I think that's way more charming. Not to hate on the fried onions. In fact, I love me some fried onions. I had a hard time not eating them all one small pinch at a time while waiting for the rest of the dish to finish cooking. This recipe is pretty must a systhesis of all the other curries I've made so far. A paste of onions, ginger and garlic, fried, spices added, in with the chicken, add tomatoes and water. Cook.

I actually like the other chicken dish I made better, but androidlustre thought it was awesome.

The spinach dish is called "Frozen spinach with potatoes", but the spinach doesn't have to be the frozen kind, nor is this some savory frozen dish. It's just spinach cooked with potatoes win lots of oil with mustard seeds. The flavor was great. I totally recommend getting norgold or some other buttery potato for this dish.

I've decided to cheat just a bit with the rice dishes in this book. For example, there is a recipe for plain rice. I don't think I need to make that one. I think I've made enough plain rice in my life. And the one I made on this evening probably could have also been skipped. It was just rice and onions and butter. I make that all the time.

In my efforts to plan ahead, I did manage to screw up this recipe just a bit. Getting home from the office, I immediately washed my rice and set it to soak, remembering that just about every other rice dish I've made from the book called for this somewhat time consuming step. And then I read the recipe all the way though. And I am dumb, once again. No need to wash it. It was still buttery and delicious.

All in all the meal was solid. Not stellar, but nothing sucked.

Yes.
Go make this dish.
Yes.

The recipe was actually not too complex. Brown the meet, add the spices, put the meat plus some water in a pot, simmer for an hour. I did bust out my little prep bowls to pre-measure the spices. This technique is making all the difference in the world. For example, the other night when I made the fish I looked back at my counter and saw a little dish of chopped garlic, whimpering softly. I had totally forgotten to add the little guy to the pot!

I have a basic rule: cooking high means checking twice. But sometimes you don't know if something went in the pot. You can't easily look at a stew and say, "yup, looks like two teaspoons of cumin mixed in there". The prep bowls save the day. That said, I also made a prep bowl of garham marsala and ground pepper to put on the meat before serving it and I totally forgot to do that. The poor guy is still sitting on my counter, waiting to be used in some other project. See him? He's the guy in the glass bowl, looking ready for action.

The recipe was pretty easy but, again, I think there was just too much oil called for to brown the meat (I used lamb, although you can use beef as well). Stuff wouldn't brown because it was literally floating on a 1-inch layer of oil in the pot. Before serving the dish, the recipe even has instructions about spooning off the oil before serving. Is all that oil really necessary to the cooking process?

Next time, I will certainly brown the meat in less oil to get it to actually, you know... brown. I'll probably still add in the other tablespoons before sauteing the spices, just to be on the safe side.

Two other things about this recipe. First, Rogan Josh has it's name because of it's red color. I'm not sure if my paprika is just more of an old-blood color, but this dish was more ruddy brown in color. Second, it calls for an awful lot of cayenne pepper. Don't be scared. It's not actually that spicy. I think the yogurt and removing all that oil at the end actually carried away a lot of the heat. The end dish (which I served with left over rice and peas and an Israeli salad) was mild.

I will make this dish again and again.

So Friday night I always cook shabbat dinner. The crowd often reached the double digits so I normally keep the recipes to things that I know well and can execute while intoxicated. This past Friday we had only 4 people, one of whom couldn't even get there until 9. With the pressure off I decided to attempt a full meal of Indian food.

First up was the rice. Rinse, soak, the whole deal. It turned our fanatically. Everything I love about flavorful, fragrant rice you get at an Indian restaurant that makes you pick the last grains off the plate with your dirty little fingers (just me?). Two things about the rice dish I would not have guessed:
1) Those little things that look like fennel seeds but don't taste like fennel seed are not, in fact, fennel seeds. They are whole cumin seeds.
2) There is about 1/2 a medium onion, diced finely, simmered into the rice. Who knew?

Two of my most favorite things in the world to eat are rice and onions. Needless to say, I will be making this dish again.

Next I made the best fish I have ever made in my life.
The picture makes this dish look nowhere as appetizing as it actually was. The recipe calls this a spicy cod in tomato sauce. Indeed, I rubbed the cod steaks with cayenne, turmeric and salt, and then added cayenne to the tomato sauce, but really, there wasn't much heat to this dish in the end. I had been nervous about the heat and thus skipped out on the chili flakes for the green beans (see below) but there was no need.

The sauce took a lot of spice prep work, but ultimately came together quick and sat on the stove to simmer for about an hour. I would have made one and a half times the sauce because it was so freaking good I wanted more to sop up with challa. The fish was fried in way more oil than was actually necessary (a common theme, I'm beginning to notice), but then was put in a baking dish, topped with the sauce and finished in the over for 15 minutes.

Keep an eye out. I'm going to start posting some of my favorite recipes here mostly so that when I go visit friends and family I can make these dishes without dragging my cook books along.

The last dish was gujarti (ghujarti? gujarthi?) style green beans. They were very tasty, despite my omission of the chili pepper. But some elements of this recipe seemed really out of proportion. A whole tablespoon of mustard seed was way more than the green beans could hang on to. And I had to shake the oil off the beans as I pulled them out of the pan. See them glistening?

I also think the par-boiling step may have been a little useless, but I like my bean bright, snappy and green.

OK, enough of shabbat dinner (in which I also made an ok mango chutney, not from the Jaffrey book). Sunday night dinner: Rogan Josh with left over rice.

So after the last meal timing disaster I took the advice of many fellow cooks and decided to make use of my charming small bowls (pictures to come after tonight's meal) and prep all ingredients ahead of time. I also decided that maybe I don't need to make complicated Indian dishes for every portion of my meal.

Having spotted a New York city produce cart with fresh okra, I decided to give it a shot. I like okra when other people make it. I like it with stewed tomatoes when they serve it in the hospital cafeteria. But having bought frozen okra once before I was very concerned about, how to put this nicely?...okra's texture issues. The stuff can taste like someone blew their nose into your veggies. I figured that fresh produce was my best chance at getting this right.

I followed the instructions to the letter. I didn't let up on my paste until it was very paste-y. I even scooped it out of my moderately effecting food processor and mashed on it with a mortar and pestle. My folks had come in to town and took me on a shopping spree to Penzy's Spice so I had all sorts of new fun spices at my disposal.

*side note*
if you don't yet know about Penzey's Spices and you love to cook, this store is heaven. Order on line and you can buy just about anything your heart desires at killer prices.

In the end, the okra was pretty flavorful but still very slimy. Sad face. I think I can only truck with this veggie if it's going to be in a soup or a stew or some other sauce that will wash away its snot-like sap.

Tonight I'm going to try cod steaks in a spicy tomato sauce with rice and peas. I'll let you know how it goes.

p.s.
In case you're wondering about the rest of my dinner in the photo, those are cheddar-chive biscuits, some arugula, and chicken that is in a kind of chunky BBQ sauce I improvised. Brown sugar, tomatoes, cider vinegar, you can't really go wrong...

So one of the best things to happen to my cooking is thanks to the drug trade.
When you live in a slowly gentrifying neighborhood, you don't have a William-Sonoma to pop into and pick up a digital kitchen scale. But you do have several head shops. Stopping by a store in our neighborhood that has several hand-blow glass bongs in the window I walked up to the counter and found, beneath the collection over very ornate knives, several kitchen scales. Most were small scales that you could keep in your pocket as discretely as a cigarette case. But there was one big box on the bottom shelf that had a picture of a large plastic bowl sitting on top of the scale, holding some sketchy looking dices tomatoes. Bingo. $20 and a wry grin from the man behind the counter later I was home free for the rest of this cooking adventure. No more guessing what 185 grams of sifted flour looks like. Check out the picture. That's what it looks like.

The night before, I had read through several recipes and selected the meal for the evening: Minced meat with peas, a shredded carrot salad with fried mustard seeds, and a fried flat bread. Trouble is, I had read through several recipes and thus had a few of them confused when I began to cook the next day. Not that I didn't have the book in front of me, but I was trying to be too clever. For example, I had read one bread recipe that required you to heat your over to the highest setting in order to bake the bread. So, before I began cooking, I cranked that puppy up, patting myself on the back for my forethought. 2 sweltering hours later I reached the part of the bread recipe that says, "fry the bread in oil and keep tightly wrapped under foil until ready to serve." Nope. No blazing hot oven needed for this dish, thanks.

I also failed to read the part in the flat bread recipe that reminded me to roll the bread flat after alternately rolling, basting it with oil, and folding the dough into quarters. As such, my flat bread was rather puffy. I'm not counting this recipe as done. It will need to be repeated. Fortunately, it wasn't very complicated.

So why was I falling apart trying to make this dinner that should have taken an hour, but took 2 and a half? In part because I came home from the gym after a long run and decided just to start cooking, without eating anything first. So my brain wasn't all there. But I also did not anticipate that all 6 of the finely minced ingredients for the meat would need to be added to the pan within 30 seconds of one another. I also did not anticipate needed to make garam masala from scratch as part of the recipe (though I had read about that step the night before).

At one point around 9:40 (I started cooking at 7) the doorbell rang and I went to answer it. It was Geoff. I had borrowed his keys because I had forgotten my at home that morning. I had several hand-prints of flour all over my blue gym pants. He looked at me like I had just gotten back from burying the family dog. "How's it going?" he asked, pityingly."Can't talk," I said, throwing the keys at him to lock up. "Got stuff in the pan!" and ran back upstairs to flip another not-so-flat bread. When Geoff came in he apologized for being so late. At that point I looked up at the clock for the first time and realized it was 10 minutes to 10.

I threw my hands up and tossed the remaining 4 dough balls I had left to fry into the trash. "Fuck it." I said. "Let's eat what we've got."

In the end, the carrot dish was the big winner. I'm reserving judgment on the flat bread until I execute the recipe correctly. The mince meet was flavorful but needed a lot of extra salt and lemon to really make is sing. Plus it gave Geoff and I gas that could strip paint off a car...

New rules:
1) Every recipe is read through no more than 10 minuted before the cooking commences.
2) Every ingredient is prepped and measured before a pan is put to fire.

I was recently told that I needed to stop trying to plan my life on a grand scale and just spend more time reveling in the things that make me most happy. After a valiant effort to come up with a legitimate life-progressing plan that would obviate my need to take such advice, I thought, what the hell. Maybe my type-A ass needs to work a little less and play a little more.
After thinking about all the things I most enjoy (cooking, writing, music, napping) I immediately started planning projects for my selves involving these pastimes.

With that in mind I'm going to spend more time cooking. In particular, cooking foods that I know next to nothing about. This summer/year I will be working my way though Madhur Jaffrey's "Indian Cooking".
( Read more... )

Pantoum for Rosalind Franklin

You were a scientist first,
Rosalind, no matter what else they may say.
You keeper of our invisible selves,
those atoms that bind and contort like family.

Rosalind, no matter what else they may say
it was you who pointed the x rays at cellular stuffing
those atoms that bind and contort like family
showed the boys down the hall your baby pictures

It was you who pointed the x-rays at that cellular stuffing
called it two lovers twisting, a double helix.
Showed the boys down the hall your baby pictures
and watched them lick their lips,

called it two lovers twisting, a double helix.
Explain that more calculations are necessary
and watch them lick their lips.
You never understood the hunger of men.

Explain that more calculations are necessary
Work harder and more diligently to make up for your sex.
You never understood the hunger of men,
loved science for its cool and alien beauty.

Work harder and more diligently to make up for your sex
How could you know that Watson and Crick
loved science for its cool and alien beauty,
loved more its blood in the water, the chase.

How could you know that Watson and Crick
took one look at your darling and said mine,
loved more its blood in the water, the chase.
Rosalind, you should have

took one look at your darling and said mine.
Should have showed them your uterus blooming with radiation
Rosalind, you should have
ask to see what they had given up for love.

Should have shown them your uterus blooming with radiation
when those boys published their genius
ask to see what they had given up for love.
How careful you had been to play your part.

When those boys published their genius
the world said, of course. And you were silent.
How careful you had been to play your part.
The cancer took you before those boys ever spoke your name.

The world said, of course, And you were silent.
No awards or cameras, sports cars or honorary degrees.
The cancer took you before those boys ever spoke your name.
You wouldn’t have wanted it anyway.

No awards or cameras, sports cars or honorary degrees.
You keeper of our invisible selves.
You wouldn’t have wanted it anyway.
You were a scientist first.

Things I Don’t Really Care About But Should

How humans evolved.
India.
Why my shins are always bruised.
Using toilet seat covers.
Taxes.
Discussing menstruation or anal sex in public.
Cursing in front of children.
Eating unpasturized foods.
Putting new batteries in the smoke detector.
Getting outside more often.
Prostate cancer.
Linguistics.
The meaning of it all.

This is the part of the story I’d rather not tell,
how at 13 I would lay awake at night deciding
which friend or family member would have to die
so that I might be aggrieved enough to be interesting,
so that I would have the permission to become more
withdrawn and mysterious and thus, more attractive.
I’d lay awake at night, plotting who it should be, how
it should go for the maximum impact. It would have
to be something epic so that I could become a rag doll
in his arms, burry my sweet face in the meaty expanse
of his 13-year-old chest and breath deep the scent of his
old spice for my consolation. My malaise would surely
cause me to lose my appetite, and thus the tragic death
of my loved one would conveniently double as a diet plan.
In the version of the story where a masked gunman
breaks into our school and holds us all hostage, I am
always able to tackle the gunman after he gets off a few
shots. One of them hits me non-fatally in the shoulder
and my current infatuation takes off his shirt to help
staunch the bleeding. I’m not sure how the story proceeds
from there because at this point in my dream I always
began to masturbate. I had determined that certain aunts
and cousins were important, but ultimately non-essential
enough to my daily life to be suitable options. Certain friends
had also been earmarked as acceptable, and I would update
my list with god each evening, playing through the
circumstances of their death and grieving each one with
actual tears so god might see what good choices I had made.
I didn’t want him to think I had cheeped out and picked a
distant relative or a secrete enemy to exchange for my love’s
fulfillment. What kind of love would that be, anyway?

When it finally happened, there was no one but the floor
to fall into. Nothing but the gasping choke for my consolation.
I wouldn’t let anyone touch me. The sacrificial loved one?
my best friend with the crooked smile and first kiss around
the corner, her mother who kissed my head like a daughter,
her father who would fetch me midnight bowls of cereal,
her sister, getting ready to start college. The epic disaster?
An exploding plane.
To whom much is given, much is expected.
I hate my beauty and thin wrists.
I no longer speak to god.
I love like I’d kill for it.

questions for my first teacher

and this is when I wish the poem would come
when I am willing and so empty of everything
but this fertile rot. when I have all the terrible
invisible things, but not your ear to place them in.

this is when I’m supposed to have the words, or
let the words have at me. rearrange this pile of
history so I might see it coming, so I can unsay
safe and love and brother. so I might get my two

small hands around its neck. where is the poem
to make a liar of my memory? where are the
jagged toothed  angels to chew free your better
self? and when they come, will you insist they take

all of you? all of broken you, abandoning the work
to be done on man you inhabit? and what poem
then? what do I write to keep you here and trying?
what do I write to push you out for good? what

divination from these symbols? what trance from
these sounds could uncoil this human tangle? and
how do I write from there? how to I call forth the
poem when the poem will never be enough?

Big Sur

We are camping again
as is our summer ritual,
two days on the coast of California
near its belly, having driven down
from the gaping mouth of San Francisco
through the hot, dry throat of San Jose.
Six cars of poets, lugging air mattresses
blankets, black wingtips and makeup cases
because we have a show that night and the
following day. Camping be damned,
we will look fabulous.

Every year we pull off the same highway
on to dirt access road, unpack coolers of
more booze than food, haul it down a
dusty trail for a quarter mile to the campground
and stake our awkward claim.
Somewhere around 6 am the next morning
it begins to happen. We wake with the too
early sun to find everything we own damp
with morning fog. We cannot help but notice
how much outside we are in, how little our
things seem in comparison to all that is not
our on this earth. This is the permission we need
to start collecting shells from the beach, howl
at the lizards at they skitter across our path,
splash in the too cold for July waves like
grace. Somehow, the slick jacks are wild again.

The Reminder

Late night on the D train
at the end of the line, I am
the only white person for miles.
Station agents keep asking if I’m ok,
if I know where I’m going.
I’m not green enough
to look rob-able, but anyone
looking for anything out of
place to while away a good drunk on
would find me easy pickings.

Sometimes it takes a platypus,
a peepshow janitor, an extra
or missing limb, to feel the blessing
again. Tonight it’s two clowns,
wheeling a large speaker.
Clown clowns,
red noses
yellow wigs
stripy overalls and
bulbous black shoes
that step on to the D train
and suddenly
mine is not the
toughest stroll of the night.
Suddenly, I’m just another
grinning asshole
who is going to be
just fine.

After

I keep thinking about that night when
we decided to walk her home; she,
too drunk to be trusted with cab fare
and directions. You and I, old friend,
and then we’d share a car back
home. Yes, we were all deep gone
by then, but at least, I thought,
agreed about as much.

And then there were my arms and legs
x-ing out her doorframe and then
there was you pushing to get
past and then there was my begging her to
shut the door and then there was you,
twice my size and looming thick and red
with insistence, with so much ugly want
your darling name broke in my mouth.

I think you must have see it there,
shaking on my tongue like one of your
lovers, because you threw up your hands
and stormed down the stairs, cursing me
and my nerve at keeping you from what
was yours for the taking Left me on an
abandoned street at. 4 am with a fuck you.
I still don't know where you went.
I still don't know if you are coming back.