Sunday, November 30, 2014


No, this wasn't thanksgiving dinner.  Though I am thankful for the earth offering such riotous color.

POEM MASQUERADING as a golden/red beets, mozzzarella, basil, lemon/chive pasta, black pepper, olive oil salad and WHITE BOWL MASQUERADING as paper


She is....
Bowl as face.  Face as bowl.
Facing the kitchen is akin to facing a poem
with an expectation of being fed
food & story.


I am smitten by glass.  This sphere by Josh Simpson.  I feel the tug of moon on the seas.  On me.  No less that when writing about the moon.  No less, when cooking & her celestial sliver graces the kitchen window.


Some words need sounding for enjoyment.
By the way, this isn't  jewelry.
It's a textile wall hanging in the Shibori style.
I've always thought of her as female.
Always as the carapace of a celestial insect.
Definitely, close to haiku.
And if she were food?  Something vegetal.
Probably asparagus.  Or fava beans.
Yes, fava beans.


Unexpected yet recognizable.  A Fuyu persimmon as poem.  
Tell me, the kinship between anomaly & non sequitur.  



Petite pears.  Speckled red.
A blink poem in the making.
In the tasting.  


on wood.  A wooden
spoon on a wooden
cutting board.
& necessary
as rain.
a pen
on paper.


The kitchen is made for cooking
the ear for words
the street for eyes,

Bernal Heights on a rainy Saturday 



Poisonous flowering plants.
Fragrant.  Known as angel's trumpets.

Beware of beauty & fragrance.
Beware of what you place in your mouth.
Beware of what you put to paper.
But take it all in -- hungerly.
& listen
to your ear
to your mouth.

Saturday, November 29, 2014


What a gift to discover food.  Chayote squash.  Mild, sweet. Raw or sauteed.

Chayote with shrimp, sliced persimmons, sauted red onion, Asian pear, with basil, black pepper, olive oil.

Chayote pear in foreground
Fuyu persimmons in background.

A poem is both foreground & background, wouldn't you say?



Let someone else do the laundry.  Let someone else worry about where the next non sequitur will come from.  Whether the next sack of persimmons will be sweet.  Whether the avocado will be firm or darkend and mushy.  Whether the words in a poem will coalesce as only the ripe can.

Whether weather will be fit for sleep.  


Looking toward downtown San Francisco from Fort Point
My Mom used the prase "location, location" as code that a house was lovely but where it was built, lacked.

Unlike to the right, where clouds are finely situated.  And the rocks, too.  As well situated as that particular word set in a poem.  As a persimmon in a salad.

Location is in the eye, in the ear, in the taste.