Saturday, July 15, 2017

Tribute to Lee Hernandez - US Army

His name is Lee Hernandez – American Hero

He is an American Hero you know,
this true red, white and blue boy.
Like the men that came before him,
he would grow to serve his country.

This true red, white and blue boy
He went into the ARMY to serve his country
Like the men that came before him,
He would carry that service into war.

He went into the ARMY to serve his country
His true character showed in how he served his comrades
He would carry that service into war,
Staking life and limb to protect others whose names are endless

His true character showed in how he served his comrades
With bomb bursting and fires raging
Staking life and limb to protect others whose names are endless
He is wounded to his very core, but his soul is whole and strong

With bomb bursting and fires raging
He was wounded in his prime
He is wounded to his very core, but his soul is whole and strong
His spirit will not be beaten, for he served his country well

He was wounded in his prime
And he would suffer for it, but
His spirit will not be beaten, for he served his country well
This makes him an American Hero.

And he would suffer for it
Like the men that came before him,
Who would grow to serve their country

They are American Heroes you know.
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Sunday, June 18, 2017

Lost Words


like a Sea Turtle choking on the plastic 
bags of human Selfishness, 
my wealth of words
is Submerged
under the dubious Constraints
of Self-Appointed judges. 
Perfection of thought
seems no longer Attainable
when Supposition is
presumed Evil
Purely as a Consequence
of its Origin.

like Frenzied scavengers
feeding on the Bloated carcasses
of Majestic blue giants,
Addle minded cretins
tear away the Fleshy
Conjugations swimming in
the Lagoons of my mind.
Fragmented narratives
drift hapless, useless
into a Murky abyss,
the Hell of lost aspirations.



like Screaming sea nymphs,
Purposeless souls lure
Wretched wandering pundits
into Deadly shoals
made more Dangerous
by infinite Whirlpools
of circular Reasoning,
I am therefore
i am Wrong.
Like playful Denizens
dancing through the Waves,
my Mind should be free
to spin Yarns
of fleeting Wanderlust
or unceasing Lamentations.


but like an ocean of Jelly Fish
Stinging my psyche,
good Intentions become
floating Obstructions
to my unique Candor.
Thoughts are
the Heart of words,
real or imagined.
I cannot make Vocabulary useful
once Appropriated.
Thoughtless, frayed minds
build parapets of Hate,
Obscuring my Convictions.

Monday, September 26, 2016

The Perfect Green Food - A Recipe for Love

            For this recipe you will need
One bunch of collard greens carefully coiffured
One bunch of wild mustard greens of a whimsical nature
One bunch of Chinese mustard greens
One bunch of turnip greens endowed enough to make the Jolly Green Giant blush
One bunch of hurricane kale blown to a leaf
Two bunches of spinach green as a sea sick sailor
all grown in your organic backyard garden and tended as if to serve a Queen. There is also the
One pound of unsalted butter churned from the milk of a honey brown jersey that races for the barn to be milked by warm hands and dances back to the lush green pasture when she is satisfied.
One or two cups of extra virgin olive oil from the trees of your favorite orchard owned by your best friend whose family came from Italy, picked on cool days, mashed into paste on cool evenings so that the crushed olive paste does not spoil then spread over grass mats and pressed into vats of liquid treasure like the molten gold used to build the Catholic empire.
One pound of home cured pork belly from your least favorite swine who spent his days lounging about in the mud and sun never ever contemplating life nor death and snorting his thanks to you whenever you dropped by with a bucket of the leftovers from your last effort at brewing an oatmeal stout that all your friends raved about at the winter solstice party you invited them to.
Then you must also include
Two multilayered purple red onions whose personalities are sweet yet robust and always complementary with the
Four or five cloves of the stinking Rose that are grown by that family from Gilroy who never ever smell of anything else. Then pour into a waiting glass
One cup of deep red wine that is dry as the June desert air and smells of rosemary, thyme and oak, pressed from grapes of ancient vines tended by darkly tanned and smiling peóns who are managed by a kind and elderly vintner whose love for his craft is only surpassed by the love for his family and friends. Be sure to save one glass for yourself. After which you need to pack
One quarter cup of raw brown sugar from cane grown as tall as trees then charred ferociously in the fields of a Kauai and squeezed till every ounce of sweetness has been extracted from its being.
Once you have gathered these fine culinary ingredients about you, you will need to heat the huge blackened cast iron skillet with the cymbal sized lid until it smokes just a bit. And while that skillet warms up you will need to wash the leaves of all your greens tenderly yet thoroughly so that none of the fertilizer from your seven Alpine Nubian crossbred goats, who willingly give you buckets of milk from which you make feta cheese or sell to the neighbor with the lactose intolerant child for a minuscule sum or trade for her special blood oranges, makes its way into your perfect food.
Next you will spread out the leaves to dry, inspecting them for bugs or bad spots so your family knows you care about their aesthetic issues. You will then, using a knife as sharp as the tongue of your shrewish ex-wife or your sassy gay brother-in-law, remove the leaves from the stalks of all your greens except that of the spinach, with swift and exact coulés, setting the stalks aside for the two lambs you are growing for a barbecue on the Fourth of July and to make curried lamb for your new friends from India that will soon be taking the oath of citizenship after immigrating to the United States over ten years ago.
Knowing how difficult it is for your grandparents to chew food with their outdated dentures, you take your tenderizing hammer and pound the kale, mustard, turnip and collard greens so the cut bits will be easier to masticate and digest. And while doing so you stuff a couple of leaves of the fresh picked spinach into your mouth and revel at the taste you would have never have otherwise known if you had continued to eat it from a can, a frozen package or the store after sitting for a week on the shelf. You take your knife and chop the leaves vigorously into bite size pieces and lift them into a large mixing bowl setting it to the side while you cut up the pork belly into quarter inch cubes and toss them into the hot skillet listening for the sizzle and waiting in eager anticipation for the smell of apple wood smoke to fill the room.
Already the sounds and smells of your morning endeavors have signaled your family that it is time to rise from their deep Saturday slumber and gather themselves at the table where fresh made juices and hot coffee with a vicious kick awaits.
As the meat of your honored banquet guest dances around the skillet, finely chop your red onions and their white garlic compatriots and place them into a bowl. Once the pig has been rendered crispy but not burnt, pour off half of the liquid fat into the jar of cold congealed bacon leavings that you store in the freezer for times when you need a bit of flavoring in your cooking. Remove the pieces of meat and place them into a bowl. Pour a generous portion of your extra virgin olive oil into the hot skillet careful not to splash any on yourself and quickly follow it with half the creamy butter and the mixture of onions and garlic. Once the onions are clarified but not entirely enlightened, pour the rest of the olive oil in to the skillet and then scoop the leafy green bits from the bowl into the pan, spreading them equally about the bottom on top of the onions and garlic. Immediately, so that the onions and garlic do not char, fold the greens into the mixture making sure that each and every piece is well oiled and the whole mess is thoroughly desegregated.
Blend the mixture, trying not to stir up any controversy, about every three minutes so as not to scorch the green leaves, otherwise keeping it covered so that the H2O in them is evaporated by the heat. Once the water has been completely expunged from the batch, sprinkle the meat about the top and rouse in order to give your swine equal time and consideration with each spoonful that your family will savor.
Now take that wonderfully scarlet wine and pour it all over the mountain of greens, bulbs and pork stirring gently and sprinkle in the brown sugar so that the entire concoction is smothered in its bold engaging flavor. Add a couple of gentle pinches of deep blue sea salt or a handful of crushed crispy seaweed to enhance the flavor even more, cover the pan before all the wine evaporates and leave on low while you whip up a batch of extremely fluffy scrambled eggs from your well fed, feathered friends, Snowball, Snow White and Fiona using that wonderful butter from your happy California cow.
            And as you sit down with your beloved family and consume this wonderful repast made possible by your hard work and the sacrifices of your backyard friends, remember to tip your hat to the deacon of bacon.

            Bon Appétit!

Wednesday, April 13, 2016

Disconnect



Woman, blind as a saintly musician, who


Gave unto me through glorious union


Three gifts of life, muses of adoration.


First a gracious offering of a man, humble,


From the owner of the universe,


Second, a butterfly anointed by the same,


Lastly, one whose genius enslaves all


And smile lights the way of love.


Oh angelic sightless aulos,


For whom I have wounded so deeply


Return to me that which you gave and seized


So I may find peace and grace


In the arms of posterity.

Wednesday, December 16, 2015

Sweet Ass Candy

I'm sitting on a pocket full of Starbursts, making sweet ass candy.

Remembering nights of love like warm chocolate

Memories of your flavors mixed with mine

Warm chewy mouthfuls of my fiery muse.

Mother's Haiku

I stop shaving for
My wife, my mother's face now
Hidden by my beard.

Saturday, December 12, 2015

Holiday Spirit

Alone again for
Christmas and New Years Eve
Are We ... getting .. drunk?