♥️ATX (2003)

It's hot in Austin, Texas.

        Tourists huddle indoors and gripe

        about the summer heat.

        "They're laughing at us," Mary says,

        signaling to the Tejanos in denim

        and long sleeves laying asphalt.

        We are drinking ice-cold beer

        in the afternoon at Guero's Taco Bar.

It's weird in Austin, Texas.

        Misfits and malcontents make their home

        in the Lone Star State capital.

        "I'm running for Mayor," Leslie announces,

        hiking her miniskirt to reveal

        (MAY)(OR!) written in permanent marker

        across freckled butt cheeks.

        Will Bill offers his legal services pro bono.

It's loud in Austin, Texas

        Live music rattles the cityscape

        with a bluesy, honky-tonk vibration.

        "Who's playing the Continental?" Victor asks

        reaching for the weekly Chronicle:

        Dale Watson has the ten o'clock show,

        Tony Price headlines Saxon Pub,

        Charlie Sexton at Antone's.

Creativity flourishes in Austin, Texas.

        Every service industry person

        has a side hustle in the arts.

        "Read my screenplay?" Hannah asks.

        I don't want to read it, but consent anyway.

        Here, we tip our musicians,

        buy local art, attend opening night.

        Yes is the currency we spend.

It's harsh in Austin, Texas.

        A hostile climate chases off

        the weak and infirm.

        "This is Comanche territory," Tocho declares.

        "Our ancestors suffered raiding hordes,

        forced slavery, pestilence and disease."

        Carmen reminds him that most of us

        are from somewhere else.

It's hip in Austin, Texas.

        Newcomers flood the city

        from all corners of America.

        "Hundreds a day!" Sarah laments.

        Scaffolds and cranes dot the horizon.

        The skyline swells like a fever.

        We measure time by what disappears,

        swear it was ours for a while.

It's home in Austin, Texas.

        The city forgives your failures,

        never asks what you left behind.

        "It gets into your blood," Eddie says.

        He came for a weekend in 1987

        and found his tribe under the live oaks.

        The Colorado river carries our secrets

        down to the Gulf.

Uncoupled

Because, if you fuck him

in our turn-of-the-century Craftsman bungalow,

under the Egyptian-cotton sheets

where we vowed to hold our sacred bond

       above

       all

       else,

my heart will collapse in despair,

our children will suffer plagues of misfortune,

our families will wail and gnash their teeth,

and all who hold us in esteem

will mourn the loss

of another romantic construct

stripped of its false ornaments.

That is the story I tell myself

of divorce

and its malignant offspring.

It is a harrowing tale,

rooted in the same antiquated sentiment

that compelled us to declare,

       "'Til death do us part."

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

But I can tell a different story,

a daring, triumphant one

that breaks this rising tide of borrowed myth

and bitter prophecy.

In this version, no child is marked by ash,

no curse descends,

the ground does not split open.

I forgive you for breaking rank.

You forgive me for making an altar of us,

then polishing the stones

as the fire went out.

We let the myth keep its martyrs

and learn, instead, the testimony of change,

how love can transform its shape

without vanishing.

Here, grief is not an executioner

but a midwife,

and the child she delivers

is not tragedy but a second life blinking

in the unfamiliar light.

We release each other back into the species,

leaving the altar unattended,

candles burned to the nub,

flowers gone to seed,

guests returned to their homes.

Vows, once living things,

are honored not for their endurance

but by their honest burial.

Nothing sacred is broken

because nothing sacred is owned,

and we, uncoupled,

are not the ruin foretold,

but two figures in the open air

astonished by how much

sky remains.

Creamy Mushroom & Cauliflower Soup

  When the temperature drops, you feel it in your bones.  This soup brings the kind of warm comfort that lingers.  A trio of mushrooms, a browned onion, and a whole cauliflower cook down into something velvety and deeply savory, built on structure rather than excess.  The thyme anchors it, the cayenne sharpens it, and the cream brings everything into focus without weighing it down. 

  Finish with warm sourdough and a drizzle of olive oil, and you get a quiet, reliable meal for a cold winter day.

INGREDIENTS 

• 4 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
• 2 tbsp butter
• 1 (8 oz) yellow onion, diced
• 6 cloves garlic, minced
• 16 oz baby bella mushrooms, roughly chopped
• 8 oz shitake mushrooms, roughly chopped
• 8 oz portobella mushroom caps, cleaned and roughly chopped
• 1 (8 0z) cauliflower head, cut into florets
• 4 oz fresh thyme
• 2 tbsp dried thyme
• 1 tbsp cayenne pepper
• 3 bay leaves
• 2 tbsp Worcestershire sauce
• 1 tbsp soy sauce
• 16 oz vegetable stock
• ½ cup heavy cream
• Sourdough bread
• Salt and Pepper

INSTRUCTIONS:

     1).  In a large pot, heat the butter and olive oil until butter is bubbling.

     2).  Sauté onions for 5-10 min on medium-high heat, until they begin to brown.

     3).  Stir in garlic until fragrant (2 min).

     4).  Add all mushrooms and sauté for 7-10 min, until the mushrooms have released their liquid.

     5).  Season with salt, pepper, dried thyme, and cayenne pepper; stir.

     6).  Add cauliflower, bay leaves, vegetable stock, Worcestershire and soy sauce.

     7).  Bright the pot to a boil, then reduce to a simmer; cover the pot and cook for 30 minutes.

     8).  Taste to adjust any seasonings.

     9).  Remove the pot from the heat source, pour in cream, and season with salt and pepper.  Let cool slightly, then use an immersion blender until smooth and creamy.

     9).  Serve with warm sourdough bread, a drizzle of olive oil and fresh thyme.

SERVES 6-7