john douglas porter @ blogspot
looking for a place to coagulate my mind
stir a steady precipitate,
form a sedimented state,
a firm cemented solid,
from elemental factors
mental extractions,
abstractions, distractions, excitations, ablations, ablutions, absolutions, dissolutions, dissipations, pollutions, collusions, illusions, diffusions, confusions
(2025-05-09)
"Go to your happy place!" they say
But my happy places all make me sad
Galleries of all I have lost
(2016-02-22)
"It's never too late to become who you were meant to be."
But my fear is that I already have.
(2016-02-22)
No matter how fast I drive,
I can't escape from the grief.
it flies beside me as I travel;
it lies beside me when I sleep.
Grief is but one of the company of phantoms that dog me.
Grief is a golem I conjure with my own hands —
hands of desire,
ego of expectation.
The dark highway before me
will be washed clean by the deluge of my tears,
and a dawn of understanding will break over me.
I wonder if you ever found the note
I left in our flat in Somerville
folded beneath the sugar jar.
Beloved Aine,
I’m sure it began
Take the last train out to the highest mount
Remain three days
Eat lichen and shrike eggs
Follow the flocks through the gorge of grey rocks
Trace to the source; melodize with the spring
Then you will receive word -
Latent history foretold
Abide ten thousand years til next Spring
Larksong -- too high, almost, to be heard;
Swallows swinging low over dolomite lake
And diving into cathedraline crevices
Hear the frozen mountains' tongues proclaim
your name in the chatter of new-thawn streams
Moraine-enciphered rumors dispelled
शृणु - Attend! La baguette du dôme céleste
touche le bol doré terrestre!
It was a pretty successful dinner party. He had brought up several different kinds of wine from the fridge in the basement: A couple different reds, some whites, a bottle of something fizzy, and a split of sauterne. And some of the guests brought various bottles of wine as well. In the end, people pretty much just stuck with reds. After everyone was gone, and he was cleaning up, he made several trips back down to the basement with all the bottles of leftover wine. On the last trip down the basement stairs, he lost his footing –– maybe it was too much wine –– and he stumbled, and several bottles of wine broke, and some shards of glass lacerated his arms, and he bled profusely, and the wine and blood commingled in his hair as he died.
Here's what happens when I cook:
I put too much butter in the pan
and heat it until the detectors go off ...
I dice the onion and peppers far too small ...
I cook the pasta until it slumps into mush ...
I sauté the veggies until they're nearly burnt ...
I use too much cumin, thyme, and paprika ...
I put too much salt, and too much pepper ...
Then I boil it all
until it's tasteless
and satisfies no one.
