Manifesto for a Real America, Part One (in no particular order)

...and hence forth we will judge entire groups by the actions of the most extreme members of that group, and it will be good -as long as nobody does that to us- Yea, we will shout loudly about protecting the Constitution even as we demonstrate for all with functioning eyes to see that we don't really care for anything it says that doesn'tagree with our immediate political and economic aspirations.

We will celebrate only those ideals that are never truly challenged and when challenged we will abandon them, claiming they were never ours at all, and the lord will grin and bless us, because we will ask him to, a lot, I mean, every chance we get where someone is watching.

We will seek to create-at least- two America's, one for us and one for them. We will call those "us" who do tow the line of our disingenuous ideological reactionary nationalism and we will call "them" those who are everyone else, especially those who know we are full of shit. We will seek to limit "them" their freedoms, especially that of religious freedom which was intended by the forefathers to be only for us.

We will feign outrage whenever expedient to our ends, and stomp our little feet because we want ensure that we are remembered as a nation defined by one heinous moment in our history, to make fear as common as breath, rather than to work to recapture the mantle of an idealistic nation who sought to live by guiding principles. We will conquer those principles with ourfearful outrage and grind them beneath our heals so we can have that vacation home and a jet to get us there without waiting in any bothersome lines, like they do.

We will use parts of sentences and quotes from our "enemies" and take them out of context, repeating them as often as possible, to prove that the "them" are "them" and the "us" are "us", -in lieu of badges- and our unquestioning followers will never protest for they will be too busy shouting and screaming how wonderful it is to be us and how evil and awful it is to be them. It will not matter that we have said the same things in the past that we now protest with great zeal, often exactly the same, because we know that none of "us" will remember and if "they" remember it won't matter because none of us "believe" anything, no matter how evident, that doesn't agree with what we already believe to be true...and it will be good.

We will create corporate entities to cloak our political actions in patriotic speech hearkening back to great events by great people. We will usurp the names of these great people and events in order to dupe as many of "us" as possible into thinking our movement was born of the least of "us" with noble purposes, and with them build a force of manipulated citizens against the foes we create, to rally and to cry out to serve our purposes. And when we have achieved our ends, we will move the line dividing us from them so that those of us who really aren't "us" will now be them, as it should be...and we shall bathe ourselves in bleach so as to remove any bits of them that might still soil us from the time we allowed some of them to pretend to be us while we needed their numbers...and the lord will grin at our artful manipulations

....and we will take our pile of cash and possessions with us to the grave after our bitter, short and mean time on this horrible rock, finally ourbodies following our brains into death to properly convert this saying to its rightful order: entomb your mind, and your body will follow...andit will be good.

And we shall awaken in our heaven, adorned in gold-spun cloth, and grapes will be lowered into our mouths by angels and the lord will praise us and he shall read our deeds on Earth aloud to us so that we may again bathe in our own majesty. Because the lord serves us and our purposes, and he will covet our Mercedes and our Italian tile pools and he will sing to us through his angels and congratulate us that we were able to crush them because after all, he the God of all creation was with us all along.....and it will be good.

For Dio...

Mememto Mori: Remember My Death
By John Hill Rogers


I will recall the times I left myself undone.
Make my final moment a spark discharging
as the product of my days.

Memento Mori.
I cursed the rain, I wished for drought, cursed
the heat, wished for cold.
Will I remember the weather
when I am dying?

Memento Mori.
Harmonize the curses and
the wishes. Something in D minor to
evoke endings, a voicing of the death chord
that harkens my electrons to gather.

With the same voice
I call myself home.
My last breath I offer to the ravenous
future and its hungry mouth

Game Night

(As printed in The Food Fanatic 2009 supplement in The Independent, http://www.independentpub.com/ October 2009)

I look forward to autumn, and the changes it brings are nicely surprising, each year seeming new. The first sweater-worthy morning, the first ruby-red leaves, the changing quality of light and oh yes, the heartier fare, all come to mind. In New England we may move through the food seasons in tandem with nature’s seasonal offerings, and fall, I think, is the very best of these transitions. Squash and roasted potatoes replace fresh corn, light macaroni salad gives way to rich baked macaroni & cheese; grilled chicken, burgers and dogs are replaced by roasted meats drizzled in rich sauces. It is a time of preparation for the long winter, via second helpings.

The other aspect of fall I anticipate is the resumption of friendly indoor gatherings. In the summer we tend to scatter a bit and summer activities are dispersed outdoors as they should be. I love a BBQ, but there is something closer-to-the-heart about eating with friends and family indoors on chilly nights.

My friends and I have a bi-weekly ritual that resumes each October; we call it “Game Night.” Don’t let the title fool you, it’s about food and community first, and if we get to some fun games after our bellies and spirits are full, so much the better.

Every other Friday night a different host is charged with creating the main meal we will share. The rest of us pledge a salad, a dessert, an appetizer and/or the beverages of our choice. There is usually a cultural or regional theme; sometimes the theme is “experimental”. We all carry a certain amount of palette-based fear to the door on “experimental night”; even though we are a group of seasoned cooks, several of us having spent years cooking professionally. There have been odd incidents of culinary injustice, napkins raised to mouths hiding the ejection of an unpalatable morsel from a dish gone horribly wrong. We are not kind when such a thing occurs. Sometimes the sting of rebuke is the only appropriate teacher. After all, we didn’t ask our friend to attempt that chocolate-parmesan risotto, so he or she must deal with the repercussions as the bitter taste of the dish is reflected in our reviews.

Thankfully these instances are rare, and frankly there is no real punishment for such experimentation. We all appreciate the risk-taking, and are adept at absorbing a laugh at our own expense. Though tasty food may be one of the reasons we all show up consistently on Game Night, it is the joining of great food with a community of friends that we primarily seek.
When my turn comes around, I give careful thought to what I might prepare. Will it be a dry-rubbed pork loin, subsequently marinated in hearty red wine and maple syrup, pan seared until golden brown on all sides, and then finished in the oven until the edges are crispy-sweet, and the meat is juicy and cuts with a fork? Will I pair the pork with roasted-garlic mashers, or sautéed Brussels sprouts with caramelized onions, garlic and dried apricots?

As I stroll through the market, touching and testing the available ingredients I contemplate the night to come. My dish will arise from an inspiration that is itself a recipe of answers to three questions, in equal parts: For whom do I cook? What, if any, theme will constrain my choices? What captures my interest as I walk through the market on that day?

Game night always begins in the kitchen. As guests arrive, their offerings are placed on the table and the grazing begins, along with the pouring of the wine or the local Maine ales. More often than not, the host is still preparing the main dish as things get started. This enhances the family-feel of the evening. This is a night of participation, of shared service to gathered friends rather than a formal dinner party or night-out being served. There is a richer tone when each person has added something, no matter what that might be. We are family on this night, the TV is off, it’s just us and the food.

When it’s time to fill our plates with the main dish, the sound of friendly chatter blends with the “Game Night” music playlist and the place is a whir of activity. Once we all have settled at a place of our choosing around the living room in a loose circle, there is only the familiar sound of tableware on plate. After a few moments the “yummy sounds” ensue, followed by looks and exaggerated nods across the room as if to verify the shared experience. Next the spontaneous reviews begin which might be directed at the dish’s creator, or simply exclaimed to generate agreement and discussion amongst the group.

In turn, I am certain, we all take a moment to look up and survey the beauty of all that is before us. Our friends nourished, sharing a common experience from the work of our own creativity and from our own hands. Yes, food is at the center, is the vehicle for this sharing, and what better vehicle could there be? Nourishment is so much more than giving the body calories to enable its life-sustaining processes, not to diminish the importance of survival. Assuming we have food to eat, a blessing unto itself, there is also nourishment in the sharing, the community around the table. Monopoly, anyone?

Glacier and Another Time

I tried to ride the night rocks,
just off the crowned shore road. They
hunch deep into the sand,
let down by a carriage of glacier
against the summer beach.
That giant came and went,
dropping its fatigue,
melting.

I sat on those rocks once,
my knees bleeding-
a cold tingle storming my spine to re-route the pain into passionate memory.
My knees bled, yes, but under Gem's weight.
it was the kiss
that halted everything but her
prying fingers at my mouth.
We rode that carriage,
It set us down.

I can't see the night rocks now—I hunch, I squint-
they are disappeared.

A faint dragging sound, I hear,
slow grinding under some weight,
the moon rubs the sand smooth so
my knees don't bleed.

Frankenstein's Monster

In paradise, the monster
has no face.
His heavy shoes scrape against
the hostile public sphere. He is
out-cast, shelter’s shadow.

He lumbers across personless reaches.
As the real prime mover, he
is a hole of light.

--The Monster Speaks--

"I felt the first charge
joining my partial bodies,
light behind my blindfold.
I reached to embrace my father,
begged him for a name."

--The Monster Exits--

He might have been gently wakened,
thick curtains drawn, a dark-wood room,
only column shafts
of warmless light.
His skin is cave-cold and bright.

He id not beg to know, but for a name.
Breathing in, expanding
from all centers
into great black lungs.

One dying universe exhales
for the next hot beginning.
Life feasts on death,
and trembles in
the dark.

But darkness is the beginning of everything.

8 Weeks to Spring (me)

If I had a motorcycle to ride,
eyes closed in the snow, out through it,
until the roads turned dry in the south.
I'd trade for a horse,
trot into the Virginia mountains with a pack of dried fruits
a jug of juice
and a year.

A David Day

A down day can fall
into any month.
Trip and
drop right in mid-week.
Thick as the mud of the week.
Jagged as the borders of the week,
drawing the blood of the week.

A full down day is like a david.
The goliath week's big happy eye caved in
by a rock cast-up from a fallen david day.