BARREL MAGIC

Triple Chocolate Cake One package devil's food cake mix One package instant chocolate pudding One cup sour cream One-half cup oil One-half cup warm water Four eggs One and one-half cups semi-sweet chocolate chips Beat all ingredients, except chips, for four minutes. Fold in chips. Bake in tube pan at 350 degrees for 35-45 minutes. Prior Restraint Poems that used to be made in Provincetown are now being manufactured overseas. Seas that used to land ashore in Orleans are now rolling onto other beaches, against other cliffs. Cliffs that used to toss poets into Cape Cod Canal are now crumbling to factories undersea. Poems that used to be written in Truro are now going sideways to sunsets. Speak of the Dead 1 Dorothy will prepare the trout that Tony snagged. Save the heads for stock. Mabel wants to use fennel instead of celery in the stock, dear. Frieda argues that trout isn't a fine enough fish for stock:--not white. Georgia says one reduces stock more in New York --Oyster House, remember? If you must do charades this evening, mop your brow with fennel, dear. Georgia is outside under your tree --why?--what's she doing? --praying, or . . . No one's asked you what you think of Pablo or Paul, and that's a pity. One can't believe, looking at your paintings, you know anything about art. Gargano can't be better with tomato than Santa Fe, you know. Before "La Dolce Vita" there was la dolce Kiowa Ranch--eh? . . . Gin gives you gas, rum, constipation, and whisky has you on your knees. But soon must you abandon your new home for Europe,--September,--this year. Brett, Mabel, and Frieda vie for your attention --you'd rather bake bread. The rosy cast of the bread's crust reminds you of stucco, so you muse. All hot and bothered then abrupt not a recipe for love much less . . . Staring at that sun through lead glass windows really does nothing for you. You must believe in your writing though critics may shit on it,--sit,--write. Your poems are presents without irony, with pasts,--write, then have lunch. 2 Morning hurts so that Frieda can't bear being near you or your moaning. Go, punctuate your spiritual dearth by dancing on your car's roof--start it! How strange to be putting, sputtering in a Ford when you could hike it. If you could breathe well, that is, --yet the air here draws you up, fills your heart. Here, this wind is your spirit, --sugar that rises, --oxygen to limbs. Your soul, your deep, inner sweetness springs even to your fingertips, nails. Park at the lookout outside the ruins: remember, fill your canteen. Clean your pockets before the trailhead then listen to coyotes cry. Sandstone runs close to the road and steel nets hold back the mountain,--it slides. Darker veins could be igneous:--the hills ride over a caldera. Above the canyon, you follow paths littered with bones then pause inside. One cannot long look into the sun or black dots your view :--you know this. Yet you stare at the sunset as though it were your papa gone to ground. The sunset rays your vista with red as one white thunderhead passes. The cloud pierces the dark blue sky with lightning and shimmers sheets of rain. After it rains, spider webs glisten upon the fallen pine needles. Ladders crosshatch adobe walls and frame tufts of cotton that blow past. No longer will macaws brighten their rooms nor will corn fill their great houses. Don't slip off the cliff tonight--Dorothy will not look for you, again. archives Amelie Asa Nisi Masa Club of Man Craw Drown Yourself in Garcia Lorca Eros Fish Grace Green Looking Glass Magnolias Many Minds Nautilus Pattern Recognition Raw Information Somme Surfing with Philip Thanatos Winter Sounds Woodies sites #!/usr/bin/girl Berkman blog for america Bootsy Boogie cory cowboyneal dandelionwine Dark Tea Time dirtdirt Dominey Gizmodo Kapor Kuro5hin Macleod Marshall max speak pacific views Pixelog pixelsphinx Poore rebecca's pocket Rosenberg Snooze Button Dreams Songwriters Udell ultramicroscopic Waypath < ? Poets Unite # >

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