Take A Bite

I'm so hungry for this guy, even his shoe leather would taste good right now...

This is a tribute to Anthony Bourdain. A very rough draft, but revised once since I posted on Jessie Carty's Make Friday Write.

Acid Notes Of Parsley And Paramount

       There was a time, before my career as a chef

       when teeth were barred on gravel and grit

       prairie wild, and wild game guesses

       boots didn’t slide so well

       and  the back of a spoon...meant lessons learned

       adventure was only a dream; then...

Bourdain rides into wide angle lenses

smoking hot, off death row requests

with back stage laughter and cooling engines 

still left gunning

to fulfill a wish, ‘live as an Englishman’

where protestant notions collect  

kindling abroad those traditional fires

questions surrounded slippery rims

as menus begin flying over courtyards

the simple answers are seasonally deep fried

after crawling back from an abyss

cross over stardom is the password

guns are cocked as the crew circle spits

word for word notions fly hungry above

scenes from the other side knock down back doors

trains never fail- rolling in with supplies in hand

blood cake comes out warm and under temp

unborn chicks slide in over easy

and are served in a sea of guilty pleasure

always floating on top with skirts jacked high

to ease slow rides downtown

pressure mounts as “chef is a cold man” death whispers

beaten and cramping and changing the days cuisine

a sprinkle of parsley is thrown and soars high

refreshing over the shoulder wishes

landing on everything left in his wake.

If you have no idea who 'Bourdain' is, well then...you get No Reservations!

I want this to go somewhere and not sure I like some of the angles...

Okay your turn to speak...

Metaphorically Speaking, Of Course

A request made by a friend of mine.: I guess writing in this manner makes me feel the writing is forced, or too wax poetic, of which I was once accused of over using by my ex-husband. That is why I try and stay away from it. Is it painting too much of a picture. Truth be told, I found it difficult to write and keep a straight face. Meaning my eyes wrinkled up as I pushed my fingers into the very tight inkwell hole and began to make the third to the last line. Metaphorically speaking of course.

Growing up in Carrollton, Texas we had this painting my mom bought to go with the seventies Spanish Iron furniture they also bought; it was of a still life...a peeled orange next to a vinegar bottle, and had a glass of red wine off to the side. Man was it a dark fake. I was always puzzled at that painting. You know how we place things like a picture in specific spots, but do you ever really look at them after you made the choice? Do you really LOOK at them, study them, or do you just dust them off each week as it blends in to our surroundings. Sort of like a photographers musings along their path.

In anticipation of Lil'sista, I found it hard to go to sleep and woke up early, as usual, and began thinking of how I could lay in bed all day because I was just plain tired. Of how things would still change around me, even if I continued to lay there. I also watched 'Stripped: Greg Friedler's Naked Las Vegas', by David Palmer before I fell asleep. Must have impacted my thinking. Or was it Greg's blog, and his still life's of fruits and such? Hmmm, does art really imitate life...

Still Life
as requested by Jeanne

I sit, quietly on the edge of an island
of blankets as the world turns
spinning schedules before the day

ever begins. Morning shadows start tripping
across my lap, stretching obscure minute men
who under your nose steal the thunder

aimed at hearts filled with memory
and pain. A shelter of hoarding rises up with
empty vessel lined shelves; in waiting

they mirror me, ready for random target practice
when an ocean of tears breaks free of its barriers
and keep me prisoner in this spot, where day began.

On this black leather sofa planet crust
evenings darkness meld and break me free.
Floating along the red hot lava of desire

I scavenge up nourishment, and exercise
the will to bend my legs. But it all pulls me under
sinking what I was crafting as a get away boat.

Metaphorically I am like my photo, many flavors, layers, and what you see is not always what you might get. Ha!

Jeanne how was this? and it is a first draft, not sure there will be another...I will let it simmer in my mind pot...

On to poetry!

On a last summer's eve, just before fall, the new September- I thought I heard Mother Earth's bones cracking. As I sat still, tuning in to the moment, what I thought was a tea kettles whistle, did it come to light. Squirrels scurrying about, making ready for winter, they dropped an acorn or two on my head. After three months lying about in the sun did she need to speak? I was ready to listen.

Her couturiers, the birds spoke in turn, I however became distracted by life in the far distance, and all went on. Children played. Traffic horned, as wheels grind the pavement on the highway to everyday-ville.

Soon the breeze brought with it peace- canceling out disturbance with harmony. While sisters of fate, cousin to misery encouraged mosquito's to remind me- my own home calls. I left peace of mind to sing out what once was. What can be?

I stood up in all her glory, and bowed. Then with a skip, I added my own rhythm to this joyous reunion. Along the way, crushing acorn caps, I sent out  my own message, "Be cool, and love with no resistance".