quote from Arabian Nights-- also used in the movie Never let me Go.

From Basrah we sailed, day after day, night after night, over the sea, visiting island after island, and land after land, selling or bartering our goods at each. One day, after some weeks of sailing out of sight of land, we saw an island in the sea with such fair greenery that it appeared like one of the gardens of Eden.

-- Arabian Nights

poem in progress; feedback welcome

 gELATO

this journey is colored lapis sunset swirl   (PATCHY, MARBLED, SWIRL)
with a hint of mint
smells like seaweed, OYSTER pearl, GRAPEFRUIT OIL AND SALT CRYSTAL.

I want to walk the rain wet stones in a slicket-slacker
puddle packer
trapeze a river ice tide chunks
turn the wooden handle on the manual ice cream machine
So that we can eat and have our cake too.
Dangerously. Before the dry rot of the wet preserves.
mmmmm. cherry drops, and apple pies in shops with local paint
from mr. mcGruff

In the outside the dogs bark and sniff shrub trees
Maybe they're onto something tasty
like a hare or peanut butter and jelly burrito.

the past is a graying tooth
a little sickly, but strong-boned
It wants to cling to the gums with white flash roots
PING!
A drill smokes as it spins into a crease of tooth canyon.
Animals with tusks: 
Out Out!

Sugar pill-slips spill on the linoleom, and several spots of cream too.
I taste a strong will.
A living one that wants to exceed transformation.
Won't you come with me dear?

the bait is out there, or is it here?
I cannot feel a buzz
the benzocane is cheeky
and I cannot see the sun


torential storms pull from a silver pocket nook book
a recipe which has burst into LEMON/ CHERRY.. SPOOLS/ DROPS
falling lightly upwards a moon
That is where... metal clipped jazz feet provide the beat forms.
"shirley Temple, PLEASE."
"Surely you can't be serious," HE SAYS
like a graying tooth, a little sickly, but strong-boned.
click tap tap click tap tap click tap tap click tap tap
tip tap tap tip tap tap tip tap tap
"Oh jeez, i just want this damn thing to pop out."



A jungle of monkey mint
I want to go there
with you, my friend.

Now pour the chocolate in a dish, drop a clown sized scoop on top,
Banana on bottom, cherry on top
Its cold out there and delicious like home-made gelato.
won't you share with me my dear?

Hot as an Iron pot on FIRE!

mary weather and the turtle oeove who ate thwith the gold spoon of the sphynx from the egyptian martiar mr tyeland truster who was also a band leader in the castle fo vaieries . I cannot stand that mr castleshooter said the yojg man who had jst recieved his badge in honor of fighting the trust war. trust that that seems to be somthing that comes ourt of the clostet a lot these day.s there are the villains, the criminals with brown mstashes and seedy brown yeyes and the whites sheets with the bleached stains of being let too long in the red bucket beneath the sink sinking the wahle beneath the bluye tide of consiousness he comes up to get a breath of eair but oh my! the sharks are too close this time and the baby cokc whatle wahale what do you call it? the baby shore comes close to the underbelly of the great blue thing that sink or swims depending on the climate of the day. But to day no oanother day. a woman in a yellow hat with a yellow canariy at the top shrieks1!!! Oh my god! what is happening to that great big piece of meat. He is being devoured by the orcas who circle and  ircle in the geometric shape of tides. they prepare the feast for martyrdom as the baby watches the mother pap? or father mum?protect and discect. this is the reality ofthe world of waters. the water for worlds and the worlds of the elephant. welcome and sit and watch and attempt to be still still still with a lingering note of harmonic sixths that goes for several minutes and queitly disapeers throught the halls that begins with the tiniest of sounds in the throught twhere there are two tiny wet little snail folds that vibrate so silently it almost is invisible. But you canfeel it. You can feel the air when it massages the inner lining of the throat when it is too early in the morning, or too late in the afternoon. There are pepples in the lining of the throat at this time. Drink plenty of water without ice. Don't chew the ice, jst appeal for the absence or sbsince tha absinthe of the ice. And the water will heal . the rocks will discharge into smoke and ash that cough up through the teeth and tounge where they away they go into the air to be taken in again with the lungs another groggy day where the smoke fills the sky pink . Orange they eat it raw and it smells liek orange and grapefruit oil which is beautiful becuase they said they said that this particular whale of an oil flesh brings joy joy joy! of joy illimited where the man watches the crow sing and squeel but really all the gray and darkness that seems to be in the garden of smoky leaves and broken swings are really just the beginning to the imagination where one can see past the wall, if one really focuses hard enougt. I saw it. I saw it when tapping the forehead on the lover sitteing skiwampus away and angular him at his left and I at the right where perpendicular meats the crow. and tapping tapping tapping I told. the ways were too close to image. But close your eyes I say, close the tired eyes and find the loosely gartered ring of repose. there you will travel through the vibrations (ought there to be anohter word for this wave of something)? I wonder. there I say, there you are, amid the cathedrals and dandles resting and bumping on the kneee of consciousness. Rest and look forward where you can imagine the shells of barnacles and the wet juicy triangles going through the tunnerls of the mind and the body becomes so heavy that the arms are carrying the world as well as two purple weights of two pounds each on every inch on every square inch they pull attached to rope that has ben yearned of white haired ladies in the southern states, claiming they have taken threads through old singer manufactured arts where the needle goes up up down down in a balanced rythym of precausiounary tension. They will weave you a fortress. But now allow the colors of the spectrum that you know and do not know pervade you. Forget about the stairs and the noise that goes long before the drop down town history where the boy spins in a feathered boa and the others sip their jingle juice. I am not meant to be as crass as one might say I am. But Peter. Thinnk and do not think. Listen to the tapping of my finger.
She screams! The orcas are contaiminating the water with BLOOD! Stop it oh stop it! she looks around whre there is no one but eyes that watch the scene. Swimming and closing in they bring in the weight of the water which has come from the deepest coral and highest sun. Shining down on stripping pieces of flesh and rubber blubber, where the babe is not safe, for the mother has been swallowed whole. But not really, just piece by piece. When you are save you are not safe, for the orcas are hungry in their tummy tim toms. Cannot they find a little scrap of weed seed smoke? I purpose they connot. Forthe laws of the vial are secret as the graves from which the birth are taken in. And the grasses of brown summer color are not growing but taking in the rays of the suns. Vibrations.
Focus now on the sound or the feeeeeeling your throat is making when you allow the air to penetrate and the lungs pull in pull in push out, let out.
There is the calm. There is the rage. But the colors that you have been taking in since the eyes relieved themselves of the silicone plastic rubber cheese melt, you can count on them now. they may looks like lines or geometric patterns of triangles squares or circles or even the tailfin of the orca. You know that even this looks lie a triangle, my peter. there you wil find, once you have traveled far enough, the mathematics of race, the mathematics, of the sun, and the mathematics of the percy wetty shetty shelly fish. Where the red fern does not grown, but numbers spring to the sky. She screams again!!! Blood Blood Blood in the wake!!! in the wake there is blood, blood there is in the wake!!!! Do not wake, but sleep now, my peter  my peter, when there was a time we stood against age old stone that had been crafted from raw hands mayble slave people withtheir skin unprotected by the spfs of the ancient golve glove. and the faces are only protected by the sheen of the rim. and the head is bend over the back facing the god of son, wishing for the sweat to become clean as the peak of everest. The snow will melt into summer. We will drink again, peter. we will taste the snow caps! But now, maybe now it seems she screams because she feels the plight, the sound, the vibrations of terrror because the sea is blood, the sea is blood. But look past and you will sea the horizon peter, and there, where the horizon meats the heaven ward, there the spirit is free, there the body of mum and the body of papa will meet with a great shadow of force and teh web of mathematics will cling to each its own point of connection. See? Where? There. where the skiy is line. The sky is line. Tap Tap Tap Tap softly I tap the forehead where, the softest note of sea travels through the nasopharynx and the bones of the tip of the ice nose berg head. foreshodowing! Foreshodowing what is to come. !!! There may be the blood of the sea, or the ringing of bells. Bells ring through the nose. The rose blooms foreward as the eyes foreword the silence in chaos. What what ? Can you not see the spiraling bells of methematics? See the sheells, the caves beneath leonard that once were rivers beneath the survace of the layers of rock. William Hill I call upone the eithgth lord of caves. Do not find your abandonment, but release the noise, and find teh turning of shells. You, there will my peter be lifted and taken to the shores of horizen. Where there is no end, but end is now. For there is no eternity but that which is the ever present Now. Look peter. Do you see something you have nevr seen before ?What are you doing to me you crazed duck lick goose knob? How could I ever harm you? For all the sitting conversations of the past and teh brilliant future of pink shadow gold dream where the turf meets the surf. Ride them bloody waves! Surge of surf, mind of matter, matter of surge, surf of mind. the tunnel of wake, as the earth beneath the blood waves shuffles, quakes, where the shodows of ablatement turn to dandles. The pocket of the ringles the circular order of the pringle shell turns the widening gyre, the birth can meat agian together. The joints that we thought were borken are no longer separate but repaired in the welding nickel soldeirng steal! She screams the weaves are blood the weaves are blood. But the day has past and teh sun is sleeping. The whale is gone, the baby rests against the paper skin of the sea top without its mom. Still the baby breathes. Water as dust appeals and sprouts as inverse rains toward mother sky. As the sun also rises, the blood, another day shall disappear.
Peter. Are you there?
silence.
but the movement of sound is felt, not heard.
Ah! To sweetly watch Neuschwarnstein, and taste the infinite air of stars in the trees! You and I, together we go.

alas a furious joy!

Remains of the day include a snuggie, a marbled snail of Arabian decent and  a yellow feathered turtle bus. Reduced to a shimmer, the fuzzy spreckled con man entered the swamp arena underneath the groung. The party had begun three nights earlier but it continued underneath the confines of swere sewer systems and caves. One could hear the band from three miles away but I didn’t actually see them until I passed by the pillards underneath the freeway where stampedes of unseen cars flew by sounding more like a train than a car. But the band screamed into microphones hailing the demons of our time and looked at the black haired mongoose who was dressed as a pirate and he looked back at me and winced. What? I didn’t think that anyone could be the one to talk. After all, the pirate was holding a jug of jin and in the other lanky fingers a jug of smelly old wine. A woman who had been talking to a portrait on the wall that had been spray painted in cans of fumey fumes. Oh to be able to describe the walls of the interior space of those sewers. We couldn’t see. It was too dark and the night blanket was around everything but the other side of the world, which was certainly warm enough from the sun. “abandon all hope ye who enter here” was markered on the curvature of the tower beam, and I held my phone up to the paint to ssee the details and I thought of American psycho first and how the book begins… but then dante and his little masterpiece, which by the way, was taught in a circular classroom where desks were not separate but attached as an elongated table where chair met next chair next door. An Italian man talked with a heavy berry rico bacon accent with the I’s and the ahhhh… I couldn’t understand most of the words that came out of his class, so of course, I dropped it. And danta can wait for another day when an Italian man doesn’t have a blazer with an orange sticker with an upside down smiley face. I wondered about that sticker and what it meant, and I wondered that night as I passed through the first of four caves of the sewer . this was a new inferno. It was an inferno of younger people with cans of spray paint and eyeliner, drums, and screeching voices echoing through the underearth... I miss the tunnels. But it stank. Someone said that we needed to be careful of our steop in other words to follow the path of the papercard stock stepping bores and the slippers of suede and sheep skin were wet and crapped on and I thought I heard the scratching meat sucking of a large mouse rat canoon. Oh a canoo would have been very appropriate for me. There is nothing more appropriate than appearing at the band within the depths of the sewer in a green canoe.  Make the cameo with a canoe with its markings on the side KCUF 999 oh but that would be cliché I must say. Drumming hip dip and swing a rythym, trashing the trashed thrashing the thrashings of society, where only the blackened eyes of the boys can see what’s coming . And really there is only one thing coming and that is the wave of silence that happens when time stop momentarily like in the matrix where neo is slip sliding bending backwards with the devils demon trickster pollywoop gymnaccrostics. Silver streak of starlight where the 3^rd rock from the sun comes tumbling down to a place where there will be a gentle divot in the land of the kutra people. Within the trees within the vines the old ruins of falling stones and lakes that are deep within the bark and brush thick with lime. A colorful bird with twitching wings cocks his head and cries,  “there are no more people left to imitate.” The crow, thought it is not a crow but an imitation of a crow dressed in the featheres of the cockadoodle doo to you parrot dice. I wonder with a shake of the wrist with the paradice stike midnight where the sound begins again screeching drumming beats through past roar and helter skelter. And I hold my camera against the walls where someone has painted a name that I don’t recognize. Sydney Marinus. And for the first time I remember the boy who stood staring at something and thinking everything and not aware of the thoughts but comepletely lost in the bliss of lost consciousness. Painting the bloom red, Sydney cuffed the back of the railing. A small rain bagan to fall inside the “crossroads” colored walls where everything is clay and the ashes of the buried bones. Those were the only ones left that anselm could use. How could he use anything but these. These were the stories, layers and layers, foundation against foundation where plaster, rock, limestone, rock, twigs, teeth and bone-dust complemnt an elephant skin fooring. Looking down at his pumps, he releases the founding fathers bones bones bones everywhere bones with no more land to roam but the land of the stolen fathers. Complacent in his moment, Sydney attempts the impossible; he is reclining back, straight backed and head 45 degrees against the graine. There he stays momentarily where he is allowed to stare at the movement of ceiling and floor, rain and muddlewords slipping down painting lane. It looks like the drippings of water plugs slipping sliding down shower glass, and sometimes, when one cries, a water-wet sticky-proof skin of many shades. Many different feet will touch this ground. If not another like it. Oh Sydney don’t stop your brigade. there are flags to be posted on moons and planets, stars and the pink stones of the kaleidoscope.backwards falling, the lids of the eyes- his thinnest skin – lower lash downwards. Look up look up the great work begins mr. marinusss. This is his epiphany. What is the great work? You  see it in front of you. You have seen it in front of you all your life, but the eyes weren’t able to tell the brain the right signals and so the feet just kept walking, the arms kept moving and over the years, you learned to do what you do best; imitate life. There is none other than imitation is there mr. marinus yourself? What is happening the 45 degree angle where his  heels connect the floor point laser-like a light the weeping paint rain. A guard pulls a flashlight from his belt. A skylight pours a gritty glow patch and sends a flash of camera blink against the higher jaw bone of the temple. Lightning. My denim is wet and wild. A Diesel would like to be a truck, but no, now a pair of American pants important from italy I mean imported from italy. What is the shirt you wear mr. Marinus does not move he is a photograph in time a quake of consciousness. Seagulls, caught in the blister, wings pulled down and some pulled heavenward nearly collapse with the power of the lens. Surveillence. From which eye am I going to be seen today?  The third eye, perhaps? The one we don’t know enough about but marunis today has painted in read against the top of his nose where the creases have appeared aafter worrying about the morning milk and cream for the cat, the afternoon lunch our when ther is never enough time to finish the clockwrk. But somehow there is still that prity of thought where the river of flow just goies and doges goes and dgoes, and goes, folling a carres of the shirt when the wings of the tail collar used to blow, a shuttle now takes the a passenger to the scene of the crime. Awake AAwake AwakeAwake. Back to the canoe hwhere we will paddle hard against the river against the lapping pools. There wwe will watch a the walls painted graffitteid clowns and battle cries, monster mash, lettered hearts with initials plus other initials. The walls become the heart ad the the eart becomes the walls but they are concave and splendid in their low brow kind of way. And now one can say , not even the king of Frankfurt, no one cn say that the lowest of the low are exempt form the crime. Because there we were, and if nto a can a paint, a brush with oils, a finger spread with the metallic of sea shor e mercury. Dripipping and it continues to drip drip drip . the bones wit the bones will soak into the elephant skin earth and will regenerate the m color ful monkeyblume hanging from the stem. Upside down upside dow. Falling still, Sydney inwardly pulls, browns like butter in tephloon pans. Pulls in, browns pulls in, he disappears. The guard turns to the moa lisa emblam, the wing of the griffin coming out from her shoulder blades. I will not be albe to let this slide says the officer of the law that watches the paitings day and someof the night looksback towards the e entrance where the glass revolving doors are being replace with new ly aquired hanging beads. Hanging beads. As the arm ofas the arm of the yellow black parking woodie collapses, so too does the meter, the kisok itself. Crumbling like the cities only revealed to some under earth under sand water bearing worlds where the green of life can breeed freely, where the green of life can make what it need to make. The seed. . and the guard, tas the guard the guard, as the placeholder in time – Gettyperceptuman—collapses. At last the gaurds  stands above a pair of sneakers and pima cotton, where all that’s left is the seed.

Farmer meets a punk, treacherous sling, put away your arrow, I put away my seed.

Away with the tunnel, the youngins of the sewer world away. 

Cherry Coffee Cake

I found this recipe from "Lifelines", a patient newsletter published by DaVita. It looks tasty, but risky.


Ingredients


1/2 c unsalted butter; softened

2 eggs

1 c granulated sugar

1 c sour cream

1 tsp vanilla (extract?)

2 c all-purpose white flour

1 tsp baking powder

1 tsp baking soda

one 20 ounce can cherry pie filling

Preparation


1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

2. Using a mixer, cream butter, ceggs, sugar, sour cream and vanilla.

3. In separate bowl combine flour, baking powder and baking soda

4. Add dry ingredients to creamed butter misture and mix well. Pour batter into a greased 9" x 13" baking pan

5. Evenly disperse cherry pie filling over batter.

6. Bake for 40 minutes until golden brown.

Helpful Hints:


Substitute blueberry or rasberry pie filling instead of cherry if desired.

Cut into 12 servings instead of 24 if you need extra calorie.

Lower sugar options for those with diabetes include using sugar substitute for baking instead of sugar and using low-sugar cherry filling.

note from matt: you may want to have your heart checked after eating this if you don't already have heart issues.

bland steamed white rice

What if after the ultrasound I took a noodle vein and wrapped it around the round turning thing on the edgwick sinspter mobile and then took that noodle wein and spun it through the wiring where the needle goes up and down up and down so so so fast it goes it bounces and it whiiirs like a little engire engine as the fparetns foot goes down and up down and up the foot stool controls the spaghettic string oops I meant noodle but that’s the noodle there is only one so that the noole goes from the spinster to the orooof he just barked and then he did a little fart like that bee I used to think about mr pinkerton h=and how his bee wings went so quickly it only took a slow motion capturing cameria to get a glimpe of one second of the mr pinkerton looked out over the sea of waes and the fresh hives he had wanted to taste that fresh honey bunces of oats. No just honey real spun honey that reminds me of a storry said that caterpeller dressed up in a caterpeller suit. I’m thinking of a man with a mustache and bifocals that has a mustache and the lens that goes from his eye to his ear, this bifocle hass a toune aoh no wait I want it to be, I ai magically take the wand in my lef t and right hands oh no fingers I mean because the fingers are the ones that type and we go back to that man with the mustache and round brown eyes with the oracle from an ayeeye to an ear where there is a fleshy hearing aid that one has to adjust with a tiny little earglass screwdriver – the ones that are so baby cute you just want to eat them. That makes me think about how if a small corn on the cob were to mate twith the ring a ling the eyeglasses would not be there a baby ? I thiknk so what would the baby be but a little chicklet that comes in a plastic abox. You know whats funny I thnink about foood so much a strawberry a kiwi a lemon a n orange but can I thnkk abou something else? Yes, the first thing that comes to mind is a little squirrel with a befriend that carries a small acashiew in his satchel . he sings a little toon that tune that goes something like, when my cashiew was a little baby nut, it did not taste so cut. It had to grow it had to grow so that the ut left lost its leaves and dropped the leaves to the starch floor wood. And then when the ahsiew surbibed the fallDont we all! Yes survive the fall! And hand in hand they went no looking back some natural tears they wept but wiped them soon  and then said, I want to go back to the little garden. I m not goinna let that little demon angel kcik me out of my homeW this is our palenstine. You gae us a gift, jesus. Why did you want to tkake aay a good thing. Someone sometwhere is holding up the wriknkled fitty fist and thaking an index finger to indacate a motion of disapproval. And to that I say. You , I can with you certainly sympathize. I can understand that but once there were two pictures that had a crow and a cock with orchids and the like with bits of chiken snaps. But on the speaker wen about this and that about theravenous merceez beans that had been falling from the sky in april there was a dry spring… and april for sure is definitely NOT the crueles t month. In fact, I rather like april. It kind of got a little glow going on and the owls and the larks are twitterpated and su h so that the branches of sycamore trees are smiling and the painted gold yellow pink and lightitsh bluoooo hare all smiling from here to Nebraska which is a place Ib’ve never ben but when I sthink about Nebraska in the winter I think about a country place like with snow and ide and rouds and a brown wooden farmhouse with a porta potty that is definitely not attached to the house. The pillars, the pillars they are leaning the wrong way. I’ll fix that. Take the tape measurere son tand hold it up to the pillar at a nintely degreee anle so that the piller stands at a perfect ninetly u degree angle at the sound of thw whistle 

Classic Baked Chicken recipe from Simplyrecipes.com

This looks like a good chicken recipe. Since I'm diabetic I have to cut down on the salt. And my renal diet doesn't allow a lot of chicken or potatoes, so I would probably make this with steamed rice; maybe add some steamed carrots, corn and peas for a little variety.

http://simplyrecipes.com/recipes/classic_baked_chicken/


This recipe was found on www.simplyrecipes.com and is under the label, "classic baked chicken." Enjoy my fellow cullinary aesthetes!