Burrito, bolus in my belly, fire in my breast. My dinner, my doom. Boo-rree-toh: the trill of the tongue wrapped before and behind by the osculating opening of the lips. Boo. Rree. Toh. It was lengua, stewed lengua, in the middle, morsels melting from meat to stock. It was beans and rice below. It was salsa de tomate on top. But in the tortilla it was all a Burrito.
et terra nostra dabit fructum suum.
In full parade, a second marching soldier –
Now up, now down, from head to chest, and left
To right across the scapula, from shoulder
To shoulder – signs the seal by spirit’s craft
A second day of Advent: falling out and feted
This Dublin distillate of lively liquid
From Marrowbone Lane is the golden mean
Conciliating holly’s red and green.
So malt and grain untouched by smoke can soothe a
Distinctive thirst – to infant bottle, once
And twice and thrice refined, this fractioned ounce
Announces itself uisce beatha –
And halting stands at ease, his sentry post
A watch before the empty crib of Christ.
Here’s What Happens When You Stop Being a Vegan
The tension mounts. A cat that climbs the stairs
Connotes the awkward moment’s masquerade
The wind and rain repeat. But no one cares
When love grows still and breathes contagious airs.
Cannot the awkward moment’s masquerade
Expend emotion’s capital like tares
Our love still grows? To breathe contagious airs
We hum the minor chords of Scheherazade.
We spent emotion’s capital. Like tares,
The dinner détente dies. The candles fade.
We hum the minor chords of Scheherazade
Like clowns out of step in a sad parade.
Somebody hire the guy, already. (Don’t forget to turn on sound!)
The search for truth is not a trade by which a man can support himself; for a priest it is a supreme peril. – Alfred Loisy
The morning sun is threading through the haze
That hangs above my head. Tobacco’s whiff
Occludes this April’s finer fragrances.
I break my fast on pears and wonder if
The foolish faith within my heart corrects
The proofs of falsehood – my grandest grazie
To God! These fondled pages – each dissects
The saints’ exquisite corpses, prima facie.
And deep in thought, I stab my cigarette
At earthenware from which I ate the fruit.
The sticky ash that crumbs and smears my plate
Evolved from gold ciborium and cruet.
And so these browning table pears don’t rot
But change, project, develop, recreate…
And this, my brothers and sisters,
is how I ended up with one of the ladies
from my mother’s book club:
I was home from school for the summer,
taking a break from mowing the lawn
to get a glass of cold milk from the fridge.
I went in to the living room
to see if there were any snacks left,
just as the circle was just breaking up,
and found two women talking
as my mother showed three others
to the door. And then there was one.
“Well the horses might be pretty,
but the goddamn book is beautiful,”
she said, waiving the book like a pennant.
“Have you read it?” I took a bite
from a biscuit and said, “Uh … no.”
Took a sip of milk. Gulped.
“You probably spend all your time
chasing pretty girls, don’t you?”
“Uh …” Before I could finish she said,
“Won’t have much luck with that mustache,”
and after wiping the white from my lip
… today was like one of those fly dreams …
with her thumb, then licked it clean.
The composition of vast books is a laborious and impoverishing extravagance. To go on for five hundred pages developing an idea whose perfect oral exposition is possible in a few minutes! A better course of procedure is to pretend that these books already exist, and then to offer a résumé, a commentary. […] More reasonable, more inept, more indolent [than other authors], I have preferred to write notes upon imaginary books.
— Jorge Luis Borges, preface to The Garden of Forking Paths, in Ficciones (New York: Grove Press, 1962), 15-16.
See also the Cubeland Mystic’s notes for an imaginary movie:
How about a two man movie? It could be called, Matthew, JOB, and Bourbon. You sit out on Matthew’s patio drink and discuss important stuff, but with a twist. The session turns into a discussion about the perfect movie, and then as the screenplay develops amidst shots, your dialogue would be interspersed with the actual scenes from the finished product that you are developing on the fly. It ends with the sun coming up over La Mesa. The last scene of the movie is Mrs. L picking up the empty bottle of bourbon throwing it in the trash, and saying something like “I wish they’d do some real work.” or some such. That’s the whole movie.
Let’s write it, right here in this post.