About Tacos

Nov. 2nd, 2006 09:35 pm
blueimber: (Default)
last night
i sailed softly down to where i had left my things
from the night before
and in the last of the Autumn warmth
went over with these weathered hands
the simple ritual
of what it means
to be a person
working with another.
picking tomatoes out at the supermarket
wondering over cheese products
selecting sauces and ingredients
as if the shelves could hold for us what
we have been looking for.
((in my mind and i see things and i feel
then, pointing out a childhood haunt
i smile
that would have been the spot i would have selected
armed then with having gathered
the bones of a good meal
walk the gentle flight towards the kitchen
thinking of the spices
of the way the light hits the stairs
of being in this quiet space
of working together to create
a single meal.
the onion falls under the knife first
and i show him
onions and peppers and utensils and tomatoes
i show him
i show him
he asks
how large for the cheese
running my fingers over the mouths of the shredder
'this one, this one should be just fine'
i sauté the ground meat
fingering spices in the cabinet
searching for still what on shelves i have not found
my memory inadvertently remembering
jar shape shadows and
does every spice cabinet smell the same?
i pluck some treasure up out of little tins and glass jars and
we are cooking
it is easy
it is knives and throw it in the pan
it is turn the heat up and let it cook
quickly quickly
these raw things turn into something whole
he turns the beans out into a small pot
and i begin to toast the shells
while switching the meat off and the tortillas on
swirling the butter over the flat pan
that we can never escape the memories that we make of things
but that there is always the chance
to save anything
by remaking it in another image
i flip the tortillas out onto a plate and he spoons
and spreads
what he's got
wrapping it then
around a shell
and i keep them warm as the oven cools off
from having finished its toast—
we're then ready
and begin to fill them with the delicate little morsels
that sit haphazardly in darling little bowls
spread out over a table too small for this
but just big enough to manage to hold
my heart is happy
i am so proud of this little meal
everything is perfect
and we alight upon the futon
and our show begins
and like
being alive
we eat together
drink together
and share the last few bites—
when did this become so close?
how will i let it go
when the course is run and
things change?
in the meantime
i let the thought pass out of me
to do its damage elsewhere;
i am not worried about.
instead i focus on
the smell of his skin
the feeling of my nose pressed to the top of his head
the way my lips kiss perfectly the shape of his eyebrows
the taste of his wrists and fingertips
the shiver when i move closer to his neck
my pulse when he moves closer to mine
all of those things not talked about
not said
all of those little things
which indicate the intimate nature
of the kind of peace
within the same company.
what defines this?
what would this be called?
labels fail to properly signify anything
but the calm i feel when laying my head against his chest
that my tension melts at the feeling of the palm of his hand
against my stomach as we lay together
mean more than any word could ever put to it.
and perhaps that is why i find i stay so silent—
because the awe has me
the moment has me and
to say anything would
dispel it—
and no
no i
want this to last
some little time of it longer
like one more kiss before leaving
just one more
don't let me go
say to me
blueimber: (Default)
trying tonight to be myself
under the star'd skies
gazing at the stem of a tall glass of merlot
as if it were a flower
and i only a bug
in some distant city
far away
longing for the petals.

apple, hunting knife
bread and fresh cheese
the lullabye of the inspired music
singing to me
what has been in my heart
that i have not given my tongue rest enough
nor my mind
space enough
to say.

"i shall return tomorrow.
and i said fly on my sweet angel
fly on through the sky--"

a toast
((always remembering
in jewish weekending
ninth grade
rocky horror
and my pockets going home
filled with rice
having been hit on the head
with toast
and other goodies handed out
by the bikers
oh what it was to be so young and
not really know anything))

i have seemed melancholy
you must remember remember
all poets are proclaimed liars

in this silent space
and i think of my days spent
and where my footsteps have taken me
and to what ends i have gone

a toast.

to life.
to the life i did not think i would live
to the life that i have
to the lives of those who have touched me
to the lives of those whom i have touched.

to this apple
to this boule
to the new book at my feet
to my radio which knows me so well
to the things i had forgotten i liked
about solitude.

to thinking on my sins.

to the memory of fingertips
lingering lightly above my skin
like a whisper sits upon the stillness of the lakes of morning
i got out of grand central this morning
and like a column of silver brilliance
i was struck by the steele blue of a glance down 43rd street
and for one moment
at my back and within my eyes
i could not tell which was the celestial body of the sun
and which
the luminous illusion
reflected back
a loving mirror.

this summer i
did not get
to go out to
the beach.

one more year and the ocean alludes me.

i have been blessed
not in that
life finds me to be her favorite childe
but that
i could still have hope
after the storm has finished itself
upon me.

i am blessed
that as i have come as an answer
i find too in that
i am answered
i pray for just a small time longer of it
i like the touch.

if statements
could somehow be inefficient
at expressing
with true dignity
and authority
a feeling
'i like the touch'
would be amoung then the most
blueimber: (Default)
so good in my mouth
you feel
under my tongue and
around it
little apple.

shiny and new
green to the world
and like a little tart
bringing the blush of fall
to the fullness of my lips
like biting into life itself.


fall is full of things that taste wonderful--
such as kisses stolen under the waning moonlight
on the sweetness of
what i am only dreaming is happening.

i have visions of that cherry red color again
of being under falling leaves
i feel within my heart so bad
if i could just make it to central park
for one warm afternoon
then i could have
my autumn--

it elludes me
am certain it moves the longer i am not looking
by degrees farther when ere i am
although now as well as i know this city
and her
i cannot loose the park
under any excuse

dance a little turn and dance a little turn
and soon we shall be into a new year
the space between my calendars
and anything can happen

don't let me live on the edge of a
please don't make me balance out here forever
at some point we all reach our rope's end
just enough to hang myself by
i imagine
but the cord's not knotted
not looped graceful slender around
this neck
where your kisses
and hands
ought to be
instead it lay against my palm
unravelled for want of use
something else

but i make my circle
draw my line
crisp in the sand
like the way the skin tastes
just on the underside
of the apple
blueimber: (Default)
in my mind
the whole world is going to loose me.
i am going to let a little bit of it come crashing down.

our skies are falling
the stars blank right out
the sun hisses as it's pressed out of existence
and the moon sinks away into deeper space--

my god and it is all breaking

the trite refuse of this world
oh girl how sad it was that you had a thought.

how sad it is indeed little girl that you sit there
all day
and dream
and follow everything that has ever led you into heartache
all over again.

it is always the same
doesn't anyone present anything different?

like the queen had told unto alice
in this world child
you are insignificant.

i turn away and turn away and turn away
each day i open my eyes and it is something else
life giving me no constance.

i am nine days away from three years.

each day each day each day
each day i wake up and face what i am afraid of most
each day i thank god for whatever i may have been able
to get done
and each day i fight back the tide that seeks to overwhelm me
pull me down into its vicious subtle poison
the idea
of my unnatural life.

nine days
to three years.

i am a little proud for it
that i have for this long managed to stop myself.
don't think i don't think about it
gods no no no
i must think about it near constant
save those few moments
when the little fox of love
curls up against me
and fills me with hope--

oh silly girl
lost in the woods
listening to the howl of the animals,
scraping her body against stones

steel the stones of our prison
steel the rocks of our shores
millions of points of razors and blades
the sort of thing
that would of me
have ribbons made

my whole skin

three years

no more messing around
i've crossed that threshold.

this was what was waiting for me on the other side

devastating wretchedness
something so deep it is poisoning my blood
turning my body against myself
something very wrong
something very soon

but if i can just make it
if i could just get beyond these nine days

these nine days resisting the lure of it
the sweet song of our redemption
the ease of all this suffering
the silent kiss upon the brow of eternity

oh they could put me in the ground and forget me
i would very much like to be forgotten
i would very much love to fade away and have no one notice
that i had been gone
it is the most lady-like way to go about a thing

sometimes i actually sit here and think
that one
thin little line
would do no harm
that just one brilliant stroke
against the alabaster of the pain
would serve just right
to make everything feel like it was worth it again

no, i whisper under my breath, no no no.
a sworn oath you cannot break
your promise, your promise
you must never serve to break
i calm my blood, i cool my body
and i sit there with my eyes closed and
i wait.

i sit and i wait
listening for
the word.

it is out there in every night
everynight tells a different story
i suppose it is why i get up to face the day
because i want to know how it ends
i want to know what the night holds for me
constantly under the realm of the moon
but in those moments
those moments where this solitude
this vast empty
this unfathomnable void
becomes too great a burden
for me to handle
yet there is not any other thing i alone can do for it
i am able to now stop myself
and simply listen
for the sound of it.

even if it does not come down
sometimes there are moments

i was hoping tonight for something
i am useless to think that
this silence too
i could break.

eight days left
has been crossed into
and the infinite cycles within those loops
reminds me
that even if i removed myself from this otherwise sad picture
some creative designer is just going to blink me back into it again

altho for tonight
i served to be broken
the closer it gets 'to life'
the more certain i am that i will be fine.

i will be fine.

September 2017

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