...ye might be

Fair maiden, hear these words for they are wise.
Hide not your beauty in disguise.

Close not your roses away from eyes

to save for but one's single prize.

Don’t wither, tither nor lament with sighs.

Think not so low whilst oh so high.

But allow your glories to sing the skies

and by fellow gardeners ye might be surprised...

Gastronthropologist.

Gastronthropologist. Look it up. You won’t find it in any dictionary or any google search, but believe me, the do exist. Even with out any web presence whatsoever, they find each other. And they have formed a well-maintained ungroup or dis-society. I call it that because even though they are the only ones like themselves in the world, they are the most elitist of all elitists. They focus all of their mental powers and financial fortitude upon a most singular of passions. This is to completely accurately recreate all recipes specifically indigenous to their geographical origin. And I don’t mean they use Mexican rice in Mexican dishes. Ha! They’d scoff at such a concept. ‘Amateur clowns’ they’d call somebody who spoke of such. These are people who have wept openly at episodes of Iron Chef and consider “those sorts” to be culinary rapists.

Y’adonna found her way into this mis-collective after she found a hand written recipe in the back of a copy of Marqis De Sade’s ‘Justine’. The recipe had addresses of shops in and around France where the exact ingredients were to be purchased in order to make ‘THIS’ particular soup and not just a soup very similar to it.

She was intrigued by why somebody would go thru such trouble over soup. But as I said, she was intrigued; so she tried to make the soup. She headed off to her local whole foods and gathered ingredients. She sauntered home to finish out her meal. And when it was time she had a bowl…’not impressive’ was an understatement. She thought, …maybe there is something to getting fresher ingredients so she went to local farmers markets and tried again….still no magic.

‘What am I doing wrong?’ she pondered. Then she decided that she was going to try the soup the way she saw it in the book. She’d contact these addresses and see what could be done to get the soup worthy to be hand written in the back of a book of such repute. She began to research on the internet and soon found some of the ingredients easily and had them shipped to her from France. However some of the more rural addresses had no web locale and she had to begin communications via post. Over the course of time she found that there were other recipes like this and other people like her who sought out specific components for such foods. She began to network as best she could. Some people were more helpful than others. They told her how to recreate weather conditions for specific climates of the world and who to ask in order to get somebody to send her soil from a particular locale in order to grow her own spices or produce if it couldn't handle being shipped or if it was not in season or no longer produced by a certain grower. Over time she became well (rather widely) known in this un-group because, as u will often see with the ultra elite, these elitists were super specific in their tastes. Basque gastros only dealt with Basque recipes. Aleutian experts only dealt with Aleutian dishes. Yet Y’adonna so loved the experience that she sampled recipes from all over the world. And because of this she acquired the nickname “T.T.” For some it stood for ‘tourist tongue’; some for ‘taste-bud traveler’ and others it was even ‘tainted tongs.’ She didn't really care either way what she was called. She’d gotten over that when she was younger. Nobody ever pronounced her name correctly and so she was used to being called all sorts of things. In her opinion ‘T.T.’ was one of the more tame titles.  Ha, she thought, that could be another one… anyway it took years to get all of the ingredients together for that very first recipe she’d found hand written in that book. Some she had to have shipped at a certain time in order for them to arrive at her abode at the same time as other components and some things she had to grow on her own after having local soil and even local rain water bottled and shipped to her. But she finally had it all and in her post simmering. She had her favorite soup bowl and spoon also shipped from France for this most special of occasion. And when it was all cooked and all ready ready rich with butter, broth, and onions, the luscious, unctuous soup slithered down her throat. At last she had created ‘THIS’ particular soup and not just a soup very similar to it. At last she had tasted De Sade’s Justine soup and at last knew without a doubt that it had been worth…it…all.

Lustrate: interim - i, the breeze

standing, gazing, blinking away the sun and salt. i feel the cool waves rush across my arches dampening the silt between my toes then slide back out into the blue-green expanse. back again it rushes. this time to my ankles. i kneel, but there is no prayer that comes. i wish to sink, but the waves rush out as if they know. flat on my back now i feel whole.waves rush to my shoulders and then to my ears. i listen for their whispers,hopeful... but they won't console me. rush and slide again and again until i must hold my breath against the creeping advance. yet i lay there soaking in the sand; soaking in self awareness and soaking in the truth that neither this break nor the entire great wet that hurls it at this shore will ever be enough to wash away the things that have come to be. lady Macbeth got off easy. i fear i will not.

Lustrate:Chapter 1: Oh, What a Beautiful Day

Inhale, exhale, pain…

I have never been more aware of my body then I am right now.



Inhale, exhale, pain…

I can tell you the exact circumference of my right pinkie toe and the depth of my left ear canal.



Inhale, exhale, pain…

I can feel it all; everything and what I feel is…



Inhale, exhale, pain…



I can hear hushed voices and struggle to open my eyes…or rather use my eyelashes to drag away the bricks someone has left sitting on my pupils.

This was a mistake.



Inhale, exhale, pain…

Now my eyeballs hurt as well.

The pain has erased my ability to focus. So I zoom in, zoom out, zoom in until like grandpa’s hunting binoculars the images get less fuzzy.

I hear the beeps and see the white coats.



Inhale, exhale, pain…

I think ‘hospital’. I must have thought it out loud because a taller white coat moved towards me and confirmed, “Yes Ms. Darwal, you are in a hospital.”

I ask, “Why?”

The coat begins again, “Well, I can tell you why you are here but now ‘why’ you are here.” He said ‘why’ differently each time.

“Any why.” I say.

“Simplest answer;” he states, “allergies.”



Inhale, exhale, pain…

“Hurts more than allergies.” I kinda gurgle out. The white coat chuckles. “funny?” I ask.

“No, not funny.” He apologizes, ”But you are becoming a medical legend Ms. Darwal. You are currently presenting symptoms of every non-lethal allergic reaction ever recorded by medicine. How you are not dead is, in itself, unfathomable. However, we do think that you are improving. You are no longer experiencing the projectile vomiting and diarrhea that you were earlier. The swelling of your eyes have lessened and the blisters on your palm and the bottoms of your feet have all stopped weeping.”

“Everything…all…pain” my voice is not much more than a grunting hiss at this point. I hoped he was able to hear the question through it all.

“yes, well…”he began as he flipped through the charts in his hand, “you do still currently have dry, oozing cracking skin and lesions covering about 97% of your body. So, yeah you might feel a little discomfort. So the less you move the better. Also there has been some hair loss as well I'm afraid.”

“Discomfort?” I ask. He begins to speak again, but all I know is…



Inhale, exhale, pain… …pass out.

from the wake pt3

flitter, twitter, pitter, pat...a slow soft rain begins to fall. at last a break from the bake of the sky and just the ever so slake in his thirst. falling rain and nothing to catch it with besides his trembling fingers. he gets enuff onto his cracking tongue to cease it's burning and seconds after the coolness reaches his throat he passes out again. this is his cycle for days. no shade from heat; only enough rain to keep him alive until the next day. on the dusk of the 4th day of this, he contemplated sliding off his board and letting the sea take him. in his heart, he always thought that it would anyway. 'I am sooo tired" he thought to himself as he curled aboard the makeshift raft. the last rain he'd been so weak that he could only lick water from the board as it pooled near his face. "death, i am yours" he whispered as the sun sank.

from the wake pt2

Usually what woke him from these floating naps was cold spray on his face or sliding back into shore. not this time. it was the bright heat. Lazlu cracked open his right eye and turned his head that way...open water. now to the left...open water. slowly he sat up on his board and looked around him. all he saw was vastness and emptiness. it had been barely sundown when he had done his great paddle out and now the sun was fully up. instead of a 20 minute nap, he'd slept the night away and instead of waves coasting him back towards the shore, the currents had slipped him farther out to sea.
it seems that his innate desire to test limits goes too far even in his dreams.

from the wake pt1

As a young boy Lazlu always had a problem with limits. Pushing them; testing them; crossing them until there were repercussions. He’d tell one too many jokes and get into a fight with the neighbor kids. He’d swipe 2 more cakies than mum had allowed and wind up with a day’s worth of tummy aches. But to him these were just simple fees he’d gladly pay to purchase a life that, in his mind, was a living adventure and far better than the next poor blokes lot. His whole life he pushed things even until it made him face death. Which he did; And continued to push; now even harder.
Lazlu Bonnicup fell stones for apples in love with the ocean. Well the tides anyway and even more specifically the waves the tides brought with them. It’s said that he could swim before walking and learned to run chasing out the breaks. By the time he was 2o he was a master boardsman and could paddle out faster than a team could row as far. As in all other things in his life, Lazlu shoved against the boundaries even in the ocean. He’d paddle out farther and farther each day looking for a beast he could ride miles back into shore. He’d do all of this for himself alone, so sun or moon was fine by him. As long as the waves were willing to show up, so was he. One night after paddling all day he went out until his arms grew sore. So he climbed up onto his board to rest for a bit. It was a large wide board and fit him like a perfect seaborne hammock.

little girl blue v2

little girl blue, fingernails red
lips fake a smile, eyes truely dead
hums a little tune, notes don't sound right
and it thorns all through your mind, like a rusty rail road spike
always on the hunt, always gets her prey
once she has your scent, you'll never get away.
whistle and a blink, finger snap and clap
you stumble and you tumble, perfect into her trap.

little girl blue v1

Little girl blue, all dressed in black.
Smile on her face, blade near her back.
A hop and a skip, all sunny in the rain,
Slickers on her feet all crimson from the maimed.
Siren as she stares, twinkle in her eye
Blows a single kiss as she wishes you goodbye.
You offer her your heart, she takes your soul and skin
And makes the devil shiver ev’ry time she gives a grin.

Paths - episode 1: virgin or vixen

there you stood the girl perplexed.
 at crossroads split; too scared to test
the waters there stretched out before you
 which will you choose? they both implore you.
 passion's torrents? familiar safety's shallows?
 sacred? profane? cursed? halloweds?
 toe in here and finger there.
yield to passion, do you dare?
pick a path and stroll a mile.
 outshine demons with just a smile,
a nod, a giggle, and then a wink.
will you prosper? who's to think?
 i can't answer. the choice is yours.
 missionary? on all fours?
halo, horns, or in between,
nightmare or a pleasant dream,
 either way it's up to you...
 there is no more that i can do.