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Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Metaphor for a Poet




Verse, free and rhyming is something I’ve struggled with for two decades . I’ve also realized that as soon as one switches mediums all kinds of difficult questions pop up.

If a woodworker builds a shelf, the purpose of his wood is the shelf to hold things.  It’s a purpose driven project. The words are result oriented. A lawyer works this way with words, so does an email.

A poetic woodworker might carelessly attempt to build a shelf out of jello in order to bring a change  in mind, a sartori for a young child for that is looking on.

This is exactly what Raymond Carver does in his stories. He makes one character the teacher, who does something that changes the mind of another. The teacher is the story, and the voice of the teacher the language.“The Cathedral” is one such story, and the model of the cathedral the image given to his metaphor.

If the thing we write has life, do we give it that life? Or are we simply processing something that was alive already and fulfilling it. . . bringing it into being?

Stories use words to bring out an inner life . . . a dialogue in the mind. "Winter Night", by Kay Boyle, even Hemingway’s early short stories. The authority of the sentence acts on behalf of a mind, human and flawed. We see through the obsessions of the writer’s voice. It proceeds from a constructed "I" or imagined authority. That is the metaphor in a story, it is behind the language which assumes it's position in the mind, in the teller of the tale.

Once that process starts in the reader’s mind it becomes unstoppable. The words continue to evolve the thing they’re making. But later the words are forgotten even though a good story is remembered. How is that possible. . . what creative process is continuing on? You bring these words out of the womb and then they get given a life of their own. Who is to say if you will finish them or me or someone else?

I sometimes feel that all the struggle we put into our work is just abuse we’re meting out as parents to our aborted little word creations. But there is a life, eventually and the thing that’s being created breaks free. Your inner voice in our stories, all of them, have life. They evolve, and as a reader I later reflect on them, much as I’d reflect on someone new I’d just met.

Haiku are pithy, beautiful, edgy, one can’t deny they pack a wallop. But haiku hasn’t time to dwell on a inner personal voice, or character development or any of that. It has to get right to the point. This you mastered. Haiku has metaphor only in the simple fact that the wallop of ‘plop’ is not an actual frog going in the water. It’s a word going into our brain

What is it that pries meaning away from words, and lets them fly free? The Greeks would have said that was metaphor, developed by Greek theater.

This is probably the most misunderstood poetic 'device' probably because it is regarded as a device when it reality metaphor is poetry itself. What's not metaphoric, isn't poetry. It's prose, and by definition, prosaic.

A  poem must be pulled away from stated subject. If anything the subject of a poem is the surface of a river. It is a fiction, yet it is all we see. It is not the water itself, but it's appearance and it's appearance only from one point of view. The river itself that is it's current, flowing eternal, vast deep is filled with fishes and plants and crustaceans and things you cannot see. Or is it the bedrock, the bed of the river that holds the flow, even if the river dries up in the summer before the rains.

A friend wants to write about divorce, and in her poem there is the word 'divorce'. And this part of the poem is like a legal brief. It is purpose driven. But hidden at the end there is this piece about dividing up common property in particular some sculptures, made of wood, one is of a loon, another of a bear.

Did the beautiful living branch want to be carved into a bear?

There’s the metaphor. The wood giving up wood-ness for loon-ness.

So crazy to take a branch and strip it
And make it agree to become a loon.

In almost every piece of writing there is the kernel of a metaphor that could fly to unforeseen heights. But in almost every instance that metaphor is buried, imprisoned, caged, a leopard pacing in a zoo.

A thousand Buddhists on a lake whisper in unison. Some grunt, some make clicking noises, others chant the letter 's' others short bits of 'a' or 'o' or 'p' or b. The sounds all fuse into the echo of a human voice speaking from the mountains.

That’s what a poem is. The Greeks defined this in their early theater experiments. They used voices speaking and singing behind masks to set up a reaction in the audience’s mind. It was more vivid than cinema. People had heart attacks, vomited, passed out and committed suicide the day after. It was scary stuff. Dionysus was there with all his terror. He could evoke war, battlefield hell, love, intimate love, ecstacy. . . . and did it all by not being specific, but instead setting up that echo. Behind masks!

Words take off their clothes and leave the imagination behind,  a desired effect once we’ve forgotten . . . 

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

The Crash



Language collapses into a heap of shards. Somewhere in dreams the pieces reassemble, into myths, they dislodge memories and rebalance the meaning of words. Continents turn to sand.

The signs over shops in the square had not changed though it seemed trees had grown, peaks around the village moved closer. How much better if sea breezes swept the dirt square, and blew fronds of coconuts against rotted porches.

The new currency bore the face of Baby Bachala. The old guy had a beard, that's how you knew them apart. If you talked to residents, the son's reputation tarred the father. Both were regarded as puppets for the northern devil.

After the elections "Bachala" morphed. It meant 'foolish man', one who is easily duped. 'Your dog's a Bachala.' or, 'they Bachala-ed the workers down at the plant.'

Language deceives, the dollar rules, two marks of a cruel con.

You needed a stack of Young Men just to buy a plate of eggs. Fruit workers lugged bags of payroll to the capital to exchange for a small number of identical pieces of paper with a dollar glued to the rear. Each day the exchange rate got worse.

Women with brushes and pots of wheat paste stuck debts of the republic to the greenback with glue. Viaduct Estano Diaz stank of ink. The plates engraved for the new thousand banknote were cancelled, the million Baby B took its place. The walled street ricocheted the machine gun clatter of Bachala money presses.

At weekend, the central bank recovered dollars by soaking notes in water. The domestic bills got burned. Elites wired fortunes to China and Switzerland. Baby B prepared his exit, with a mountain of stolen cash.

Lines at the central bank went around the block, so I bought a wheat paste kit from a kid at the edge of the square. It included a plastic pot of paste, and a hefty wad of young men for five dollars US. There was a blurry printout with instructions how to do the laminating.

I sat on a bench and started work with a stack of bills brought with me from the States. The instructions were explicit "All four corners must be glued down."

"How much is that CD?"

"Twenty Old Men." A million Daddy B with a Hamilton glued on back.

In the villages barter replaced money. Ten coconuts for a gallon of fuel, two small fish for a bottle of beer. The ten-thousand bill Baby B was worth about a quarter when I arrived. The few notes in my pocket were a wad of lint that hardly bought a cup of coffee.

The old woman with berries tied into her graying braids at the lemon colored shack sold me a ticket to the airport.

The portraits of Señor Bachala she gave as change were bleached white as sand.

-:-

I spent the night in "La Preciosa" in another room that looked towards the tiled swimming pool filled with leaves. The terra-cotta moldings on the stairwell stirred my heart with a longing. Longing for what?

I took a large wooden rake at the edge of the pool and busied myself gleaning leaves from the surface. Beneath the slick, the water was surprisingly clear. Then a young woman in a blue bathing suit burst out of the hotel and dove in. She swam a lap without noticing that I'd gotten all the leaves off the water for her.

I don't believe in accident, or chance. Were my legs so fond of this place they led me back? Life is the history of forgetting and re-discovery. How cluttered we've become by names, places, dates, houses with photo albums, and heaps of useless journals, maps.

Today, this very day, I held in my hands a ticket, on that afternoon, a flight north, through the mountains. Would I visit the same deserted villa, encircled by vines, fer-de-lances hunting rats by the well?

Is literature just shadow play for a fickle and forgetful audience? Words drove my most precious memories into darkness. Truth merges experience with the compost of time, and somehow cheats memory every time.

Yet I did remember.

Some buildings were recently painted, others had fallen to ruin, It is quite amazing how sun, and a salt breeze will contort a piece of wood, split a hanging sign, curl the cedar shingles of an old roof. Memory rusts real property of the mind. Sentiment is the most powerful of all corrosives.

Wait a minute, that square I knew in my youth, wasn't it by the sea? Where is the sea? Is this the same country even? Perhaps my memory put the ocean there, into the picture. As I have been saying, memory is so faulty.

The old woman offered me a chance to enter a lottery.

"I'm flying out of here, why would I join a lottery?"

"But Señor, many who buy from me win. Try it you will see."

I gave her five Old Men and she handed me a white ticket with some numbers.

How far is the sea from here?" I asked.

"It is two hundred kilometers away Señor."

I tried to calculate, my thirty thousand days of rambling, border to border, language to language. It had been a season of rulers on a rampage, people were slaughtered. The town plans and names, those cannot change. Yet when change inevitably moves on, there's always a vestige of the old settlement, preserved by the scent of newly poured concrete.

How vivid it all was, a land outside of time, now just a box of shadows . . .

-:-

I met Titanio on an commercial shoot, years ago on the Island. A large estate had been rented. Ford delivered ten new luxury cars with a man in a suit who did nothing but keep the cars polished.

I had been signed by the union as an apprentice grip. "Meet Bobby V at 59th and 8th at seven o'clock. And don't forget to bring a hammer!"

Dispatch gave the same advice. If you were a connected guy you could manage with just a hammer. But if you were a bum with no family connections you needed a full kit. I took a bunch of small tools thrown in a canvas bag.

The hammer was the tool for getting things done in the movie business. It had to have a wooden or insulated fiberglass handle, for prodding the backs of lights and fuse box connections. The claw was superb for picking up plywood, and sections of set.

On the Island I was assigned to Titanio, senior grip. He had a crane to haul a platform for lights and crew, onto the roof of the big house. Titanio threw a rope around four sheets of heavy plywood, then nodded to the operator who lowered the hook. Titanio draped the loop over then signaled with his thumb, and as the load of plywood started to rise leapt aboard.

On the roof of the mansion I saw him untie the plywood and begin putting together the platform.

His completely bald head blue eyes and slow way of moving, and talking, made one think Titanio lacked humor, or physical grace. This was not true. He had been a gymnast in his old country, and one day shooting commercials for Budweiser Beer, drank a few himself. Then he showed us he could still do some of the old moves he pioneered.

One of these was the standing triple somersault. "Today, because I'm an old man, I'll just do a double." He took one forward step and vaulted into the air. The air seemed to collapse as he hugged his knees, and came round two times before landing on the grass with his feet.

-:-

A recovering man returns to life. Of course that is a choice. A crash is just another crisis, a bad hangover, or an overdose. In time the deaths of others becomes an abstraction.

"You're upset. You're depressed," I told myself. Whose voice was that? She seemed to call sharply into my dark head. She must have been a bird I never recorded.

The dense forest forgets everything. So I walked, as I had many times, and after an hour when a sweat broke out on my brow I reminded myself, "I survived". Why? Was it fair? Aside from a few bruises, I was the same as any human being walking in a forest. Same as any other.

The junior man in the tail of the plane had made it through.

Life's so fickle a game. There, a small warbler pulling beetles from a branch. A snake's tail vanishes under a log ahead of my footsteps. A howler deep in the leaf canopy drops the heavy wet rind of a jackfruit. None of us can ever know what the major sequence is made out of.

And so I wandered back to "La Preciosa". I had some money. I had my bag. And the clerk at the desk recognized me and handed me a key for the same room.

"Welcome back Señor. The hotel has had to change the rate Señor. It is now five Old Men per night."

The police knew of the crash, and said many families had been contacted. I told them I had rescued the passports of two crew members and intended to mail them home.

"Señor, those will be required by the Police." I handed them over.

Five of the crew were from this country. "Regrettable", they said. "Very regrettable."

"You walked out Señor? You are a lucky man. Please stay at 'La Preciosa' Señor for a few more days. We may have some questions for you."

"Of course."

I dug out Titanio's wallet watch and keys, and put them in a small box. I addressed it care of our production office back in New York. Another box for Ellen's purse and fake pearl necklace. Then one for each member of the crew.

I sought refuge in the hotel pool. My head ached.

Yes, I could travel, record birds but thoughts of travel collapsed, merged with a headache that split my skull wide open.

Our book is left in tatters.


Friday, April 21, 2017

Mort's Panther Pond Cookbook - Part II - The Recipes




It would be misleading if the author pretended the Adirondacks were an easy climate to adapt to, much less live in or cook or produce healthy meals. Most of New England and New York State enjoy milder temperatures and rich soils for agriculture, but the gneiss and granite mountains of the Adirondacks and New Hampshire do not.

An Adirondack garden will usually be limited to potatoes, lettuce, carrots and radishes. Sometimes squashes mature into a mild fall if careful soil preparation has been made. Modern fertilizers also make it possible to coax a few additional species out of the earth before autumn. Corn will not prosper, neither will tomatoes. This is due to shortness of growing season, caused by temperatures that are too low at night, and a miserly layer of topsoil, which is little more than gravel flavored by decayed humus from dead leaves.

In the early twentieth century owners of the great camps built their own topsoil importing cows by rail and confining their dung to an area set aside for a garden, but the chief impediment to a wholesome larder and balanced diet was the paralyzing length of winter. The deep high lakes, notably Brandreth and Blue Mountain, retain winter ice until April or May, and sometimes as late as mid-June.

The housebound Vermont farmer surrounded by drifts of dry snow in January is contrarily blessed by bountiful summer produce due to rich limestone soils and elevated temperatures. Winter relaxes in February when the maple sap begins to run. Men wintering in the Adirondacks needed to hunt, and most of the diet in the last century during the coldest months was composed of salted, smoked or canned meats and fish. They dreamt of maple syrup, and would have traded a limb for a piece of fresh fruit.

Once roads and year round snowplows punctured the region with tarmac and salt to melt ice, any man could winter over and enjoy maple syrup on his pancakes. Alas, without the challenge of the hunt and the hardships of cold and snow, he turns to drink.

Lumbering operations along the Mac 'n Mac railroad line worked the men six days a week. At the end of each stint the desire to go on a bender became truly terrible. Our lumberjack chef, Mr. Morte LaPorte, was no different than any other man at his table. Many were French Canadian, some were German speakers from Pennsylvania, others were Mohawks from the valleys to the south. A few Native Americans on the payroll were from the West Coast and for a period there were two Chinamen who had worked cutting the Trans-Pacific through the Rockies.

To a man they were rough in manners and appearance. If they shaved they used a knife. A favorite pastime while smoking or chewing tobacco, was whetting the edge of an axe or filing the teeth of a bucksaw. Hours were passed honing blades on a leather strop. Some would demonstrate their craft by shaving the thick hair off their forearms with an axe.

The men lived slept and worked in the same shirt, but kept another for going into town. Most were illiterate. It has not been proven that Mort could read, though we suspect he was taught by a young woman in Montreal named Shoestring Sally. We lack anything written by him as Morte relegated all cooking documentation to his friend and sous chef Knut Deergarten.

At intervals Mr. LaPorte was given two days off during which time Knut took charge of the kitchen. These two days Morte presumably used to drink and carouse in the small town of Tupper Lake, two hours northeast by rail of Brandreth Station. We lack description of  his activities in Tupper, and frankly, we lack any first hand account of his experiences within Brandreth Park, except for what is alluded to in Knut Deergarten's Panther Pond Cookbook.

We do possess one testimonial of Mr. LaPorte leaving an Old Forge bound train late one December afternoon in March 1934. The information comes gratis Franklin Brandreth, who at the time was the youngest heir that bore his family name. Mr Brandreth had taken a job for the Mac 'n Mac lumber operation scaling loads that came and went from the station.

The five o'clock from Tupper arrived slightly behind schedule, but paused up track from the station. The engine did not discharge steam. The mail car doors slid open, then a conductor and mail handler energetically kicked out a long rolled carpet, which fell into the snow with a thud. The car doors were slid shut, and a cloud of steamy warmth, for it was blessed with a small wood stove, hung in the frozen air outside the train.

The whistle blew and the train chugged off, a sound lost to a gentle sigh of breezes which that day were in deep negative zero territory.

The carpet laid where it had fallen for a full five minutes. Then according to Mr. Brandreth it abruptly stood, dusted itself off and walked into the woods. That carpet, according to Mr. Brandreth, was Morte Laporte.

The trainmen later explained to Mr. Brandreth the circumstances of Mr. LaPorte's arrival. "He asked to be rolled off at Brandreth."

In defense of Morte's lengthy lifespan, drinking was an occupation only taken up late in life, presumably because aches and pains of tired muscles ease in the wake of an alcoholic infusion. Morte excepted, most lumberjacks lived short lives, curtailed as often by their own livid tempers in fights as by venereal disease, tuberculosis or the hazards of the occupation, crushed by a falling tree, drowning beneath a boom of logs at the center of a lake, toppling from the heights of a stump while limbing, or bleeding to death from an injury.

Yes lumbermen ate terrific quantities of food and consumed significant quantities of liqueur but what is not generally known and may be a puzzlement to modern cooks. is that salmon to them was a trash fish, not welcome at the dinner table. Contracts with men of the north contained verbiage that decreed “not to be fed pink river truite more than one day per week”.

Lumberjacks of yore expended terrible quantities of energy wielding saws and axes, floating slippery logs across a lake, or slinging railroad ties into the narrow gauge tracks of the Mac 'n Mac line. They thus sought meals rich in fats and carbohydrates for energy. Salmon was a poor man’s fish, and though fatty when compared with trout, it couldn't compete with pork, beef or venison garnished by bacon, bear fat, or butter. Those familiar with the appetites of bygone years will understand the prerequisites of a working man's diet. The foremost requirement was high energy, secondly low cost (because of quantities eaten), and thirdly (a goal that was not always attainable) quality of protein.

Management loved the salmon. It was the cheapest and most easily attained meat, widely available in early autumn when lumber operations were at their peak. Millions of the heavy pink-fleshed fish headed up the Black River, the Raquette, the Oswegatchie, the Grasse, Moose and all the tributaries of the St. Lawrence starting in late September. Netted, trapped, or caught by rod and lure, the flesh dried, smoked or salted could be stored for use in other seasons. It reconstituted beautifully as stew. But lumberjacks hated it. It took a skillful chef to prepare salmon so the men of steel would eat heartily when gathered around their long plank tables.

Energy was infused through gargantuan consumptions of flour, sugar, butter and lard, served mainly as countless loaves of bread, muffins, and numerous pies. 

They ate in silence, axes and saws beside them. Words were forbidden, and sometimes Morte found it necessary to toss one or two of the men out into the snow. The only vocabulary allowed were the names of foods stationed along the massive crudely built table. "Bread", "Butter", "Pie", "Muffins," "Stew." Any other utterance could spark a fellow's dander, and anger at a table with sharpened knives and axes could turn lethal.

The recipes amalgamated here are attributed to that Northwoods giant of cuisine Morte de la Porte, though modern chefs will dismiss these culinary artifacts as literal routes to 'Death's Door', no pun intended since that is the actual meaning of Morte's name. More will be shared on Morte's birth and origins later in this compendium.

We submit Morte's recipes from the period, garnered from a variety of sources, some direct, some passed down.


Morte’s Blueberry Snow Traffic Cone

This recipe is donated by Morte’s last surviving family member, one Mildred DeCarie Turcotte of Prairie, Montreal. The reasons for publishing this strange set of plans for a dessert will be evident.

Ice-cream cones first appeared at the World's fair in 1904. It was only in the 1950's a full three decades after Ernest Hamwi's Western Cone Company began to mass produce pastry cones, that distribution reached the north woods.

Though apple pie à la mode was Morte's favorite desert, we know he experimented at ways of serving flavored ices with cone shaped pastries as early as 1880 and thus it may be claimed Morte invented the ice cream cone long before that first unveiling in St. Louis. The oversized blue-berry snow cone was Morte's solution. Alas Mr. Laporte never patented this invention. 

According to Mildred Turcotte . . . 

“Take one ordinary traffic cone, and line it with pie crust. When the crust has air-dried, remove and bake the crust inverted atop the opening of a wood stove. Allow to cool. Fill it with fresh blueberries mixed with fresh snow and maple syrup. This was Morte's homemade ice-cream cone, though a bit larger than most. Eat and enjoy.”

We distrust one aspect of this recipe: Morte in his day, would have been unable to find or procure a plastic traffic cone. In defense of the recipe, large dimensioned megaphones of rolled veneer or wood composite were employed by crowd managers across the land. Morte himself may have pilfered such a barker's device from one of his circus jobs, or from a platform busker at campaign stops along Penn Central's line to Montreal. It seems clear that as the megaphone went out of custom, the traffic cone came in. Mildred's version of the recipe is just a modernization.

How did Morte procure fresh blueberries at the same time as fresh snow? Did he employ shaved ice from the icehouse during the hot months of August when blueberries reached their prime? Perhaps he stored winter snow amongst the blocks of ice, since one suspects that ice shavings might have made his snow cone soggy.

The historicity of cuisine is daunting.


Spring-thawed Salmon with Wolverine Musk

We transcribe from Knut Deergarten’s original text:

“When da spring comme, and da fish in da icehouse are startin to look a lil pale, take here a bigge fishe, as bigge as ye can finde, filler up with fat of da bear or failin’ dat, da fat of da pork or failin dat, da tail rind of a buck or a doe deere, don mader. Den garnish wid wolverine muske whiche can be gotten from de hinde end of da ballsac of da nastyest critter on da planet. Dis will conceale daw stink of daw fish as she rotte and make her smelle goot to daw men of da woode.”


Auberge de Truit, confit de White-Footed Mice en Terre

Teke a bigga truit ob da lak, maybe 10 to 30 poun, Don't make dis dish wid a tithing minnow brooke truit ob 5 poun, cuz you will be fillin da body wid a large number of mices. A brookie no matta how bigge ain't big nough.

Clene da lake truit in da normal way. Wash her in water jus like she swim. Don cut da hed or take outa da gills. Set dese asid as you wanna make a sauce outta dese later.

Deergarten’s original explains the final steps:

“Take ye any numbr of daw mice that ye find in daw larder after ye have put daw poison from Mongomry Wart oute in daw pantry. Nay ye mind, dis will nat harme ye. 

Put alla dem critters in daw belly of daw lake troot, and truss her up real goot. Morte say use lether shoolase for dis job. Doo not use cootten. Cootten will rotte, and the recipee will be spilt.

“Takee daw troute now and wrap her up good in buckskin, and den bury her in 1-2 feet of earthe. If it is winter bury her neath da hokey-poke, da groonde der nevr froozes. . . . Comin spring for or fiv mont latr dig her up an serve. Sprinkle on daw black flie garnish and Wolverine muskie . . . use wid cawtun. Serve wid doast to daw men.

“If some of daw men wantit gibbem daw giblet grabie offen daw innerds which ye ground up as a saucee.”

Note: A Hokey-poke is an outdoor privy cabin, or latrine.

Revelations and changes to local cuisine occurred after the death of his friend Knut Deergarten, an event which is hinted at in the following recipe:

Morte’s Lumberjack Stew

The frigid months of January and February, particularly in areas northeast of Old Forge, from Raquette and Blue Mountain, through Brandreth, through to Long and Tupper Lakes, regularly suffer drops in the mercury as low as -40 degrees F.

Normally these temperature troughs do not last for more than a day or two. The winter of 1926 though was a nasty exception. At the weather station in Old Forge, a low was recorded on January 19, 1926 of -52 degrees F. The cold snap lasted two weeks. To the north and east, where the plateau elevates, temperatures are reliably fifteen degrees lower. We thus calculate the mercury at Brandreth fell to 68 degrees F below zero during that fateful week, and lasted for five days.

It is difficult to imagine survival during such circumstances. Entire herds of deer are found frozen where they huddled in thickets, or found splayed on the ice after the snowmelt where in vain they tried to use the ice to reach low hanging branches of lakeside cedar. The terrible irony is that such food is unavailable for scavenge during the coldest moments. Nevertheless the spring thaw brings an unexpected bounty to birds bears, wolves, and coyotes, all of whom are close to death when winter ends.

It was during this particularly ferocious cold spell that Morte Laporte and his loyal friend Knut Deergarten holed up in a ramshackle lumber camp near Panther Pond on a branch of the Mac-n-Mac Railroad, on Brandreth Park in the Central Adirondack Mountains.

This last recipe derives from notes recorded by Deergarten in Morte's Panther Pond cookbook during late December, prior to that cold spell in January 1926.

“ Morte weent diggin after groun varmits. Got nonn. Outta buluts. Outta sugr. Everytin gon.”

“Gott a ded skunk, cookd it up wid som pin needls.”

“No more skunk, at all r flour. Fir wod all gon. Wes gonna die”

These are the last entries in the Knut's Panther Pond Logger’s cookbook.

Then, surprisingly in the summer of 1926, we find Laporte working alone, albeit weighing in at only 290 pounds having shed a third of his body weight over the winter. He had taken a job as a chef on a lumber operation north of Lake Placid. His belle at the time, Mamie Lapontiere recorded a recipe which he apparently passed down called “Morte’s Lumberjack Stew”.

“Prepare a pot with bear grease. Morte says bear grease may not be available so use butter. Then put in a well hung-joint of mutton or porc or beef, if those are not available, use any other meat that can be found. Darling Morte loves this dish and says it was responsible for saving his life. He says he found a carcass in the forest and that sustained him for three months. I asked Morte what animal he found but he wasn’t sure.“

The culinary details of this dish hardly matter, as the keys to its interpretation are the words "any other meat that can be found" and "responsible for saving his life".

The author believes dear reader, that Morte Laporte cooked, and consumed his dear friend and scribe Knut Deergarten. Did the sous chef, of smaller frame, freeze or starve to death? Most certainly. The opposite is unthinkable, as undeniably a great friendship existed between these men of the North. No dear reader, Deergarten perished of natural causes, but Morte made stew of Knut's body to save his own life.

This last recipe is submitted as an anthropological specimen not intended for home cookery. The title is alas is truthful, though a trifle misleading.

Saturday, April 15, 2017

Sexy Rhymes




It's time to write some sexy poems,
And be hexed in sight of a respectable tome.
They might get struck down,
   but once on the town,
They'll have permission to romp as they roam.

Tuesday, February 7, 2017

I feel the Earth



I saw my own death die, amidst dismal cancers of every sort.
I saw diabetic eyes squashed, unspeakable crimes, invisible perpetrators,
I saw convenience store holdups, trash polluted hospital deaths 'midst plastic tubing and poison needles.
Existence spiraled, crushing inward, a rubble crush was reduced to nothing.
A buoyant youth stayed behind, laughing, praying.
Was that me? The kit fox man with wings flickered for a second,
blurred, in his faded star fleet uniform, and brown sweater.
His image, an electronic illusion, was from another time?
The goggle eyed bully with candyman fingers loomed.
Into grinding wheels of yellow and indigo ink he took everything,
the atomic casino boss who never lost.
His fractal mass bled blue and yellow rings of oil into a starless night.
I laid by the wall feeling her heart only inches from mine.

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