the coming feast of earth; or, like the moon, towards dark

near the festival of first fruits and the dark moon, 42011

for 17 days
after seeing you
beyond voice
breathe out "please help me"

i see how the wane will come
and i cannot eat or sleep, i cannot
take it in, and also the gladness
overpowers me, i see how perfect
everything is, just as it is

it's a relief to return home from the airplane
i feel guilty for the beauty of my life
a hospital room is a kind of jail
and wellness only comes for visits

to never taste again, to never breathe deep on my own
what does that mean?
i think the waning moon, moving towards black
knows more than she's letting on, could help us both

what do you think it means, the festival
of the harvest of first fruits? all that we eat
has died first, dies into our bodies, which
82 x 365 x 24 x 60 seconds of writ(h)ing later
we also die into the earth

the earth eats us,
that's what a grave is,
a mouth

i am glad to be feastware
for the belly of gaia
may i be a splendid repast
for the swirling girl
giddy and young
who dances her way round
with black knower moon

may
the tin-stitched etymologies
of your poems
be spice and mint so i am savory
for the coming feast of earth

Drinks at the Gold Spike

We laugh and laugh.
The waitress, who is also a dealer and a middle manager,
has brought back the girliest drink the hidden artist of a bartender could make:
hilarious pink froth (a “Pink Squirrel” we surmise)
presented with a thick straw flanked by cherries and topped
with a dollop of whipped cream in sculptural representation
of a penis. (Only at a small casino like this, and one struggling to cater
to the curious class—to we aging hipsters exactly—
could we order by adjective this way.)
We attack the pink drink gleefully in the photos.

The unmet mixologist sends a green version next:
tropical-frog maraschinos to match the swampy shake.
Call the first drink the “Caucasian Boyfriend”;
the second “Pistachio Casanova” or “The Incredible Fulk.”

Stevie orders something “sinister,”
and out comes an opaque, burnt umber shot.
We pass it around for tasting. The first impression:
Jagermeister at room temperature—evil enough itself—
but then the attack of rubbing alcohol—
maybe 151 rum or straight ethanol (if that’s legal),
and a hint of absinthe and maybe vinegar,
but who is tasting anything at that point?

In a series of photos, we take turns grimacing horridly,
glass of syrup in hand as the scant mouthful
sears lips, gums, tongues, throats, larynxes, esophagi
and stomachs. It's like eating a despair sandwich,
impending loss on sourdough (not good sourdough).
It drives the soul to the wrong side of an unknown town
where morasses of formless fears coagulate
into the secret twisted spine that makes what’s wrong, wrong.

And a few hours later, out comes a startling fart—
quick, loud and superheated.
That’s a drink I would call a Cluster F,
a Neitzsche in Hell, a Gulf Spill, a Character Assassination,
a Hubris, a Hoarcrux, a word that means
"an indiscretion that turns into a total disaster."

But Ari won’t end on that note. Remember:
it’s only a drink mixed by a comedian/bartender
for aging wiseacres on their most recent farewell tour.

A taste of honey

A taste of honey

A hungry night owl bee
Pollinates the silver moon
Milk-weed flower, a galaxy
Flavor captured in a long tapered wooden spoon.

A Pickled rind of lime
Pounded into continental sweetheart pastes
Fates burn down time
Lapsed tastes.

A long lasting chile burst
Signals surrender to imaginary woes
Candle lit swords slice fiery thirsts
Fire’s black ashes bury wigwam toes.

A yellow & ground fine cornmeal
Peace offering to my numbers
Stirred into polenta deals
Blown eastward in my slumbers.

Poetry Prompt: Food

Food comes first.

The letter A begins every alphabet in which in lives. Same for the Greek Alpha and Hebrew Aleph. These first characters evolved from a pictogram representing the head of an ox. In early human cultures, oxen represented food, both as animals used in farming and as sources of milk and meat.

When oxen became symbolized with pictographs and that symbol evolved into a letter, it's no wonder that letter remains first in line, because no matter what else, ya gotta eat.

Write a poem about food. It could be about your favorite meal, or where your food comes from, or an what non-material things sustain you. You could share a recipe or a restaurant review. There are many directions you might explore. For bonus points, begin your poem with the letter A and mention at least one specific food within your poem.

Tags: food, poem, poet's handle

solstice is here/the candor line is open

solstice is here/the candor line is open

thump thump thump
state line speed bumps

little fake chalet idyllic
rich bungee jumping clique
patio chair lifts
moon struck overheated pools
casino ski jumps

thump thump thump
state line speed bumps

dusty gravel parking lot
the video store,the laundromat
beneath South Lake Tahoe submarine sign
store front with no ads
almost next door to a crummy liquor store
cigarette smokers out front
signal to me that this is the place
I already knew
where the candor line is open
where the amygdelic dice roll
brother Steve’s memory recast
in an eighties survivors tales
of Cal Expo acid rain/Pepperland
& coyotes two sharp teeth
in a room full of pain melding
reminding us of our part in the knife & cutlass party

thump thump thump
state line speed bumps

again the pine scent overhead, overhead
a ski run up the mountain
a stripe of white brilliant white so white of a stripe
against our ice blue sky
Sierra snow melts
reminding us
that without the intake of the sun’s rays
there is no pine scented forest.

solstice '11 (near 04 july) - the year burning (song with refrains)

old friend,
perhaps our minds
from long knowing
have the same grooves

i'm sure it happens
even as the year curls in on itself,
a leaf of sage
burning
blackening into curled
vapors and wisps
into substantless clarity

even just so, the nooks of my
mind curl into transparency,
as do yours

ashes ashes we all fall down
ashes ashes we all fall down

near solstice,
they light nightbombs
to remember the sun which is already
fading in the start of the wane of the year

ashes ashes we all fall down
ashes ashes we all fall down

why do they light the nightbombs
i don't need reminders
of how we fought and slaught
ered to clear this space and claim it

it's never been ours, and stealing
from other thieves doesn't

make it home

ashes ashes we all fall down
ashes ashes we all fall down

just as the curled cats of our luminous
clarifying brain grooves
saging into wisps and air
as the year does
seems to leave us empty -
doesn't make it home

just because
we say it does
doesn't make it home

ashes ashes we all fall down
ashes ashes we all fall down
ashes ashes we all fall down


(melody snippet)