I still have love
although worn thin
stained in places
like the remains of an heirloom coat
I did not care for properly
or time worked its inevitable wonder
but this same object
is another object now
the luxury which warmed my grandmother
I carry as a handkerchief

recipe

none of these things are real
                                                of course
none of these                                           are
but I am                                                         anyway
in the kitchen
                             cooking
there is                                      an intermittent hiss
from the stove
where the water meets the blue and yellow flame
a scent too
from where I have piled lavender blossoms
to smolder
and the potatoes have boiled                                                  now
the pasta is still cold
a lemon is lonely on a board
yellower than the laminate counter
as yellow as the flames

I left it dirty         the board               wiped but unscrubbed
as though I were a cowboy
a cowboy    who                  zests               lemons
but             who is               to say            they didn't

Sans

As a stream of pale yellow pressed out of me

I bent to inspect

And in the stream were old words 

Histories,
 reasons
Phrases of Fagles' Iliad
 Other canon crystals

With all their supposed import

Childhood conversations corrupted through cloning (dream repetition, bragged assertions)

So many loves felt intensely

And intentions I swore were digested

All and more
 wept away in urinary tears
  Blood would be cleaner

I have swallowed living rivers

But I can not hold them

Any more than the earth

Mourning coffee

This day              (time being a painted pony)

        Which goes without me

 and I            (And observation making it so)         were   

  / Wereday : a transmutable dayman,   

/And the words transform with the /apostrophe which are moons of the word  

/("We are" [but are we])

                    

doing well together 

                  (and would I do well to get her)

                           (Would she have me)

Having begun

        Or continued 

After a sleep

        (Where the sun dreams I cannot go)

And risen

                  (Despite old satan Xeno)

And walked on

               (I having marched in place and the 

                 Cosmos beneath me giving way)

And the diner sandwich

        (despite the ketchup <... in connemara>

   (I having asked for none and yet received)

     (Thus it is sacred ketchup. Dyed for me)

And the coffee

   ( come from the sweat of the earth )

     (Come From The Toil of 1000s)

       (Alchemy perfected at last)

        (Blood and Base made High)

And bus and train spun in my orbit

And I cometlike 

Stardust

Streetdust

Galactic (though my coffee was black)

               Traveler

                             Of

      *                 PHILADELPHIA

  wherein we orbit the Son of William Penn

The son being eternal (unto its end )

The penn being eternal (unto its end )

From planet NEast

To planet West

Until 

         In a moment (as all events)

         In an instant (though the coffee was brewed)

    Without warning (though inevitable to the eyes of history, as all tragedy)

   The coffee rebelled (retaining the homeopathic vibrations of exploited labor)

And traveled (in the way of capillary adhesion and cohesion)  (In the way of electric charge) (in the way of pressure dynamic) (in the way as scientists would say of "water is wet") (in the way of alchemical hermetic magnetic heat and cold) (in the way of ironic movement) (in the way of manifestation out of the infinite void og potential states)

From my mouth

To my nose

Whereon

In a sputtering snort

Was made a day

With me in it

And it was not good

This is just unacceptable

Those plums
Were my breakfast
As you surmised
What the fuck dude
You need to move out