Everything I ever needed to know I SHOULD have learned in kindergarten

But I didn't. Everything I ever needed to know I actually learned Saturday night.

1. Chew your food. Even Fido puts more teeth marks on his pork chops. Jeezus, woman! You frikking pig!

2. When a cute girl with feathers for eyelashes and sparkly red baby fairy wings offers you treats from her fairy pouch, kiss her on the lips and then run! Run far, far away!

3. Always ask what it is BEFORE you put it in your mouth. Actually, I should have learned that one in pre-school.

3. Don't drink straight whiskey out of a pint glass. EVER. WAAAAAY worse than drinking straight from the bottle. I'm sure Mrs. Bonar taught me that right before she told my parents I should repeat kindergarten for being short and left-handed (not kidding, true story). I must have forgotten.

4. Take note of everything that makes you horny: Him. Figs. Beetles. Chainsaw gas. Curls. Warm sand. Cool sand. Sand. Hummingbird wings. Frog feet. Full moon. Any moon. His hands. Books. Wet wool. Woodsmoke. Dry grass. Crickets. India Ink. Slippery mushroom heads. Turtles. River shallows. Lollipops. Hay bales. Peppermint lip gloss. French roast. Scarves. His legs around my stomach. Running. Cargo nets. Wooden boxes. Parchment. Trapeze artists. Fried corn. Lemon meringue pie. Clouds. His eyes. Spiral bound notebooks. Live music. Freshly cut alfalfa hay. Elk meadows. Truck tires. Cracked earth. Snakes. Piss and sunshine in my hair. Wood piles. Dried beans. The last leaf. Caterpillars. Blue cheese dressing. Cartwheels. Fishing. Moss. Huckleberries. Old car smell. Typewriter keys. Burn piles. Octopus tentacles. Happy people. Gosh, just about everything. And definitely his everything. Makes me horny.

5. Forget about the things that don't: Mean people. A really good partially chewed pork chop dinner sacrificed to the party gods. Right wing homophobic nut jobs. That's about it. Fuckin'-A!

6. Put it all into perspective.

7. Party on!

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ps -- guess what? Tonight is the FULL BEAVER MOON! Letting out a big ol' howl for that one!

And then it was spring

A leaf fell from the sky, spiraling down, and hit me on the head. I saw it right before it struck, a flash of orange and red, but it was too late. I passed out and had some crazy dreams.

The squirrels surrounded me, splashed puddle water on my face to wake me up, and carried me off to a tree hole that turned out to be quite the party pad. Martini bar, live jazz. Those squirrels really know how to get through winter in style.

Then they tied me up and cracked acorns on my belly. They fed me gin and tickled my feet. The wind began to howl and they wrapped me up in a big down blanket and gave me hot toddies with honey and ginger and put me in bed.

All that tickling made me tired. It felt so good to give in to the weariness, close my eyes, and fall asleep surrounded by acorn caps, fur and singing (showtunes mostly).

And when I woke up, it was spring.

Self-digestion to release their basidiospores

The rain is coming down in a steady torrent, heavy drops smacking on thick maple leaves outside my window. I love the way it sounds. It is the sound of change, the rhythm and melody of natural chimes. There is almost no light coming in -- the sky is heavy and sodden. But there is an altar candle burning on my desk, a wam, purring kitten on my lap, and my tongue is happy and tingling.

I can still taste the thick, buttery juice in my mouth and the warmth in my belly from last night. Thick, white stems and spongy caps, handpicked alongside the road by a denim-clad hunter, sliced neatly, and sauteed to golden brown perfection in sweet, creamy butter. Soul food of the highest order. Joy!

Wild Supper

Entering the laughter softened
space of our cluttered kitchen
he shakes the cold from my hair,
wraps me up in that big lover’s
greeting, all musk-scented skin
and flashing eyes. Proudly, he holds
out the offering of the roadside
harvest, freshly killed.

Sharp knife through pale shaggy manes
Slicing thick flesh of stems and caps,
gills splayed in perfect symmetry
and we are bent together
over the stove inhaling
forest and field, butter foaming at
the mouth of the sauté pan.
Sizzling from deathly white
to summery golden brown.
Bone dry to drenched in hot juice.
Finger food steaming on
the plate, we reach across
the table in unison, and we eat.

Shaggy Mane Soup
Telluride, Colorado Mushroom Festival

Ingredients:
3/4 cup choped scallions
1/4 stick butter
2 cups chopped shaggy manes (Coprinus comatus)
Garlic totaste
2 tbsp flour
1 cup milk
1 cup chicken broth
Salt to taste

Directions:
Combine scallions and butter and saute for five minutes. Add shaggy manes and cook for three minutes. Add fresh garlic. Add flour and cook for three more minutes. Add milk and chicken broth. Cook on very low heat for 10 to 20 minutes.
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Oooh, ahhh!
This is so cool -- the self-digestion of shaggy manes to release their basidiospores.

Time lapse is so sexy! http://blog.mycology.cornell.edu/?p=91

How to get a good manicure

One time I tripped over my troll feet and fell backwards, spilling the polish and leaving a permanent stain on the wall of the ginormous jetted tub that I wasn't supposed to use because "baths are expensive." So why buy a house with a ginormous fucking tub then? I'm glad the polish stain is still there. May it live long and prosper. And anyway, I did take baths, in secret, and had a great time with those powerful jets, too. Muhahahaha!

But that's all a crock, so I walked away from the tub and tiled kitchen counters and a back yard and a writing shed and herbs and flowering cherry trees that bloom twice a year. I donated my Kitchenaid mixer to a great guy in the office who has been using it to make loaf after loaf of homemade bread with his new bride and can't stop smiling.

I can't stop smiling, either. I walked away from powerful jets and spilled polish and the word "no" and I finally learned a thing or two about beauty treatments.

Wanna know how to get a good manicure? Find a man who's not afraid to show the lady a little love...and who knows how to keep the squirmy ones from making a mess.

"Don't mess up your polish now......hold very, very still.....or else."

ps -- powerful jets ain't nuttin. sing it, ladies! R.E.S.P.E.C.T.!

want, wanting, wanted

Want. No rest until. The coarsely chopped cruelty of that aching. The strung-out longing, desiring, craving with a fury, to taste, just one lick. Just one! The pure bliss, tender-crumbed angel food, devil's food cake of an intangible thing that is human connection. Because once it goes missing, you will do anything. Fingertip to tonguetip. Kiss. Stroke away the urgent, rough, ancient, heartless want.

The need that is always there but is suddenly there and THERE and oh fuck, right there, that smacks right into you when you're just lounging about in your old yoga pants, minding your own business, acting mostly completely rational, paying bills, reading books, folding towels, when it hits you with some kind of sucker punch that leaves you wet and hot and burning and completely noodled. Wanting. The ridiculously urgent urge to touch. Sometimes it hurts in a twisted up nonsensical kind of way. Wanted. To be. To be Wanted. Not in a stark raving mad bank robber kind of way. Or an oh, that's so sad past tense sort of way. But in a heart-stopping "yes, you" kind of way. Wanted. Impossible, simply impossible at times and implausible too. So out you go, into the night, searching, focusing on the infrared glow of falling leaves in sodium lights, the beaming of beams, the barking of dogs, the falling of stars. Catch one. Curl up with it. Dream. And want some more.

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Photos:

Alvord Desert Oregon -- Wanted woman's hair doused with ancient lakebed mud and left to its own devices.

The desert beetle that wanted -- and got -- all the wine.

Bottom photo: http://www.redbubble.com/people/nagillah/art/2470050-3-sensual-salmon-gums-c

Bel Canto. Delicioso. Bravo.

First, there was a washed-up clam. He sprung a leak and was eaten by gulls or some other sort of greedy beaked thing.


Then a barefoot girl came along the shore and found him there and seeing him splayed wide open like that, all clean inside and shiny and bitter-salty-sweet in the river brine, made her think of this.



Chanterelles, tossed into a hot pan with butter and garlic, manhandled with rough tenderness, sizzling, heated to perfection, juices bubbling.





All that juice in her mind made her think of how the roughly handled man got her juices bubbling, barefoot in the kitchen, steam rising, pine-scented candle jumping inside of smokey glass. How he would turn on her in an instant as she bent, bare-assed, to pick up a sock or lie on the couch to read a book or head down the hall to pee or finish some chore in another room, and he would reach out and grab her just as she put one foot outside of the kitchen boundary. She thought of how he would lift her by her waist and fling her to the counter top. Effortlessly. How he would spread her legs. How she was always glad that there was no rustling of clothes or tugging at snaps when he did this because they were always naked. Always. And he was always ready to eat.



She dug her toes into the cool sand on the river beach and picked up the little shell and put it to her ear. She could hear the sound of juices thickening in the pan as he lowered his face between her legs. She thought of how his tongue felt as hot and satisfying as a flame and how the sound of the chanterelles in the pan and sound of his lips tasting her arousal mingled so richly together. Bel canto.

The girl took a deep breath of cool, damp air and could smell his sweat in the breeze, taste the salt of his neck, see the shine of lust in his eyes as he looked up, a hungry animal lapping at warm blood, tearing at freshly killed flesh. Survivor.

She tossed a stick into the dark water and watched it as it bobbed in the current, westward, until it disappeared around the bend.

Then, there was a flower, curled up tight and hoping against hope that the first frost would never come, hoping for spring and a crushing victory the fight against evil. The creamy white and purple curves of the bud's tight petals made the girl think about how he would take her by the shoulders. She closed her eyes and shuddered there on the path, praying before that hopeful flower and thought of how much she loved it when she could feel her hair brushing against the small of her back as she arched backwards and he lifted his wet lips to hers and thrust himself in deep. She thought of the mushroom steam rising above his head and the smell of garlic and delicate apricot-scented chanterelles and cunt.


Then the girl turned back the way she came and ran home for supper as fast as she could.

The End.

Fallen

Second to Last Day of Summer
--Gina Marie

Dying grass tilting
sky against my lips
pool of concavity
hips twisting. Angled bones
curled, cracking blackened
fiery starlight. Clay-tangled
strands snaking, curled hide
sopping bracts and branches
flashing particles of long light.
Rubber on rock and truck door thud
hopelessly spread all painted wing.
Yellowed seed heads prick.
Cloud strings rain-streaked
dust tracks down fused spines.
Trembling, molten, quaking
me, flailing into fall

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Many thanks to you, BAK, for helping me to listen for the rhythm and have the patience I needed to get this poem from draft to completion. You are a strengthening force that goes way beyond poetry, and I am so appreciative.