poetry

My, this Day is Mighty Angry

“Nocturnal Feeders” by koyamori

It takes a minute in the mirror
One to still this furious heart
The second to cull the deluge of emotions
Taunting and pounding at the fiery seams
Collected in rainbows, traceable in trembling fingers
A whim to satisfy
this hollow future.

Reflections echo a paleness forming
In whispers underneath blood-marked eyelids
with pupils as wide as the beating sun.
Vibrating pulsations roll down the etched
wrinkles on her skin,
marked by impatient nails
carving ecstasy underneath
painless nerves.

Move down to these chapped lips
Bitten back furiously from memories
of  soothsayers
promising happiness, change
armed with the retribution of
one night trapped
on a strange bed.

Get down on your knees and realize
this face bears no resemblance
to who you thought you still were–
Now, just a slave
to this in-betweening life

Helplessly watching those neon nails merge
with the marble floor.

And perpetually wait for hallucinations–
to take youth away.

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Reviews

Recipe written by a Pro

I have been obsessed with cooking for a while, ever since seeing Christine Ha, The Blind Cook, win MasterChef! Woot! Go Christine! You are an inspiration to us all!

So here’s a quick post about cooking — (I will update about my Cancun trip later, still busy with moving to Toronto and stuff). Here’s a funny post written by reddit user malachi23 about a creative way of cooking Cuban Black Beans. I will try this recipe later and let you know what I think!

I have been trying to put a spin on beans for a while, because I know how bland it can be, what with being fed two full weeks of it in Costa Rica, as much as I love beans and rice, 2 weeks of it can really turn you off beans forever.

But with as much passion, hilarity and creative freedom as malachi23 put in to this recipe, I am positive it will taste phenomenal!

Oh my friend, it’s called Cuban Black Beans. REAL Cuban black beans, not that shit they serve in restaurants.

You get a lot of diced sweet onions and peppers (red is best balance of sweetness to price) and you cook them over medium heat in a lot of olive oil. How much olive oil? Say you have one big onion and two decent sized peppers, then I say at least a half a cup. Once the onions are softening up, you add garlic. How much garlic? ALL THE FUCKING GARLIC.

Then you cool it down with some white wine (not too sweet, something middling). Let it steam off for a minute. What you’re doing is killing the rest of that raw garlic taste and letting the alcohol in the wine bring out the rest of the flavors.

Then you add black beans. I use canned, un-drained straight beans (don’t get the kind that’s labeled “black bean soup”). Some will tell you canned isn’t as good. I say bullshit. I use one and a half times as much by volume as I have of the onion/pepper/garlic mixture.

Simmer the beans for a bit, low-medium. Then you will add an ounce of ground cumin, a shot glass’ worth of oregano, and a packet or three of Goya Sazon (if you don’t know what that is, look in the Mexican/Spanish/Ethnic section and look for little boxes that say Goya). If you want to be a boss, add three or four bay leaves, but don’t forget to pull them out later — no one wants to eat a bay leaf. Mix it in well.

Either move it to a crock pot or put it in a 225* oven. Check it every once in a while — you want the beans to be soft. You do not want this to burn, so scrape the bottom. I’d sooner eat your shit than burnt black beans, and so would you.

Now after a few hours taste it. More flavor? Add more cumin and Goya. Needs a kick? Add some lime. You know what? FUCK YOU, ADD LIME ANYWAY.

Traditionally, this is served over rice. FUCK THAT. I serve it in a bowl. Maybe throw some shredded pork on that bitch. FUCK ME.

If you use enough onions, peppers, and wine, these will be surprisingly sweet. (My Abuelita accused me of adding sugar, that bitch.) The beans, cumin, and oregano will give it a rich, earthy flavor. Goya is just magic. And the wine and lime will give just a hint of tartness. The beans, slow-cooked, are almost meaty (in a braised meat sort of way, not in a fuck-yeah-cow-meat kind of way). Once they cool down a bit, it will have a thicker texture, so let it sit for a little bit.

Best? Eat it the next day after reheating. We make this in a four gallon vessel and gorge for a week.

Now let’s say you’re having a party. You will get a bunch of dried peppers, chop them fine, and soak them in that wine (simmer it!). And you will add this goodness to the mix after the saute stage, so they soften and diffuse. And maybe some Sirracha, but only if you want to guarantee getting laid that night. Dip your immersion blender in there for a little bit — get it half blended. Then you’ll let it cool. And you will dip chips into that motherfucker and you will come back and thank me.

-malachi23

You can read the full post on reddit here.

How about you? Did you try this recipe yet? Any good recipes you have that you’d like to share? Feel free to comment below!

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poetry

Places and Ports

HOT!
Hot tea, hot coffee, hot wink,
to keep you inspired and going.
Deliver to me, that beautiful muse,
Blonde and young with teeth so white
Mine for the kissing, tasting that poison
that goes way deep — down to the lungs
that breathes in smoke, exhales fire
and with one wet, stroke of a moan
gasp, AH!
It’s all over now, my sweets,
This sweet street all over you, now
Stories of a dancer once so thin
that grey sweaters fall off her shoulders
as she tries to curl under the weight
of five blankets outside, by the balcony.
This is the only thing this place can give you,
Credit for the plotholes you’ve skipped
Port Credit, where we once dipped
despite the murderous storm and
the raging, ravenous lake–
where this young boy turned to me
mischevious in his eyes and exclaimed
his happiness so grand no words could describe it–
now, somewhere in Halifax,
snuggling with a blonde–
do you think he ever recalls
with empathy and renewed pain,
what could have been, if it had been
right from the beginning?
If a place can’t own you, reason me this,
who will remember,
the steps we mistook,
once we bare
our intrepid mistakes?

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poetry

The Property

If places could talk, wonder what it would say. The hundred acre land explored that day. It was quite cold so

they gathered at the trailer’s porch, in white, plastic chairs, looking out at the land beyond, while
it rained in pours.

A cat with a single, wild eye kept peeking from the bushes.
Always the one to puff out his chest and remain Alpha, he would stagger down the path with a bottle of whiskey in his hand
and shoo it away.
Then a malicious dog, with a foaming, rabid mouth sneered–
so the two men, holding branches for weapons, decided to get territorial
and
ushered the dog away. Though, whose to say,
of the three,
which one belonged more to the land–
us, or they.
We’re the strangers here, she realized, in wordless thought,
so silent it was barely audible,
so fragmentalized, never materialized
in clear, thin air.

Star-watching while the campfire blazed.
“I can’t seeeeeeee,” the formal whine.
“You need a Muskoka chair…a Mus-ko-ka chair,” he repeated,
enunciating each syllable like so.
In the abandoned barn, he missed a step
and howled while they scrambled
from the upper deck–
Blood in the skin yet he wouldn’t complain.
He stayed in bed until eleven
with a pounding in his head.
He made his way out only when
they flew a kite overhead
and yelled in excitement.

She smiled from across the table
the one precious moment they were alone.
She said she could feel the pressure mounting from each side
and that she was sitting on the very edge, somewhere far and mountainous,
just waiting
to explode.

Why do you have to bring that up
at a moment when I feel
most free?

Is this what we’re going to do now–write?”
They came here inside an old green van, with the biggest sense of entitlement I had ever seen. They drove all the way in and parked right beside their small trailer. When he climbed out his shoulders were spread, his chin in the air as if he already owned the place. She came out in a black dress, the loose frills swirling in the wind, her curls fluttering as she exited the vehicle in a soft slump, looking around from behind cowering, withdrawn eyes.

He helped her unpack – moving bags of groceries towards the trailer, backpacks of clothes. She kept nodding to his instructions, smiling, nodding, until he stopped, took a step back and studied her. It was a full second before he grinned back, hugging her, somewhat hesitantly, I noticed, before going back to the van and driving away.

For six hours until the sun set, she sat by the porch, book open in her lap but not reading, legs outstretched, feet pointed to the sky—unmoving—until with a sudden jerk she slapped a prancing fly on her arm and went back inside the trailer until the stars came out. For hours light flooded out of her trailer before being exhaled out around six in the morning.

For the next few days I would watch her silently, trod around the place with a small smile and a walking stick, trying to discover us—picking the flowers she liked from here, trying to feel around in the dark for the pond, never speaking—just that small withdrawn smile, eyes to the sky, hands in a knot.

She spent most of her time sitting at the porch with an open book on her lap but not reading. 

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poetry

Magic & Hearsay

Little Sister meets Big Daddy (street graffiti from Waterfront Trail)

There’s a man I (think I)  know
Who opens office doors
In grey sweatpants &
a stained white tee.

If you’re not careful
You will think nothing of him

as you make your way in
What would turn out to be
The place where you will spend
The rest of your waking hours.

Mentalists will often say
Human nature is a marvellous thing—
For it is human nature to believe
That one is entirely and overachingly unique
And that one’s thoughts and inner secrets
Are impenetrable to the public.

YET
the reason why
Magicians can tell
A woman will choose the queen of hearts
Every time they are given 52 other options–
is because most women do.

Just as petty thieves can tell you
That most people’s safes
will be hidden behind a landscape painting
inside the master’s bedroom.

Mind-readers will tell you
to watch people’s feet
(instead of trying to decipher
whether it’s Dolce or Gabbana)

Because most people are aware
that their inner thoughts can be transcribed
from the way their fingers tremble
or the way their lips purse–

But most won’t think twice
about their feet’s own version
of curling into fetal position.

Move your feet
From cold basements to lushful greens
Because most people are content
Living other people’s lives
Rather than their own–
(that doesn’t mean
you have to).

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