Certitude

 I was certain of many things.

When they told us an invisible man

was watching and keeping score,

I believed them.

I conjured the man in my imagination,

his likeness drawn from portraits

in the church foyer

and mother's dining room:

        tender, mesmerizing eyes,

        alabaster skin, scarlet sash over

        a seamless woolen tunic,

        an immaculately trimmed beard──

        leading man looks in 1979.

The relationship was fraught

from the get-go.

When they declared Halloween

Satan's Holiday,

I begrudgingly put away

the Spiderman costume

and joined my siblings in the basement

to hear our old man read scripture

by candlelight.

I tossed my Beatles

and Led Zeppelin cassettes

into the fire

to cleanse myself

of their demonic influence.

And I tried Christian Rock.

I really tried,

but its flagrant mediocrity only

aroused my enthusiasm

for secular music.

I endeavored not to permit

lust into my heart.

The man forbade it.

Lust crept in anyway,

day after day,

until the boundless temptation for sin

metastasized into

a crippling fear of girls.

We thought it best to

avoid girls altogether,

but there is no safe harbor

from an adolescent boy's

raging libido.

After my first nocturnal emission,

I wept,

certain I had offended

the creator of the universe.

I begged the man's pardon

as a great flood of indiscretions

washed over me.

I thrashed in the undertow

until the whole arrangement,

the surveillance,

the score-keeping,

the heavenly disappointment,

collapsed under the weight

of its sanctimony──

like a tent revival

in a hurricane.

The guilt drained off, thick and useless,

leaving only the sour film

of self-inflicted martyrdom.

Yeah, I was certain of many things,

but so were you.

When I became a man

I put away childish notions

and made of friend

of uncertainty.

Beef Bourguignon

     Winter is a season for indulging warm comforts.  This hearty French stew, hailing from the Burgundy region, is great for cuddling by the fire.  It combines fork-tender chunks of beef with the deep flavors of red wine, mushrooms, and herbs ... Takes a full afternoon of prep, so plan accordingly.  I like to accompany with warm bread and a bottle of Pinot or Cabernet ... Bon Appétit! 

INGREDIENTS 

• 3 lbs boneless chuck roast, trim the fat and cut into 1-inch pieces
• 8 oz / 6 slices thick bacon, chopped
• 16 oz baby bella mushrooms, sliced
• 2 medium carrots, cut diagonally into 3/4-inch pieces
• 1 lb baby potatoes, halved
• 2 yellow onions, roughly chopped
• 10 oz frozen pearl onions
• 15 oz reduced-sodium beef broth
• 4 cloves minced garlic
• 4 tbsp unsalted butter
• 1 bottle dry red wine (Pinot or Cab)
• 2 tbsp tomato paste
• 2 tbsp flour
• Salt and pepper
• 6 sprigs fresh thyme (tied in a bundle)
• 2 whole bay leaves

INSTRUCTIONS:

     1).  Pat the beef dry and season with 2 tsp salt and 2 tsp black pepper.

     2).  Heat a large Dutch oven over medium heat.  Add the bacon and cook, stirring occasionally, until the bacon is browned and beinning to turn crisp and the fat has rendered (about 15 minutes).  Remove the bacon to a plate and set aside.

     3).  Add the mushrooms and 2 tbsp butter to the pot.  Stir to combine.  Sauté over medium heat until the mushrooms are nicely browned and have given up their liquid (about 12 minutes).  Add a pinch of salt and stir to coat.  Remove the mushrooms to a bowl and set aside.

     4).  Increase the Dutch over to medium-high heat.  Add a layer of beef cubes (you'll need to work in batches) and sear until the beef is nicely browned on all side (about 5 minutes).  You do not need to cook all the way through.  Remove the beef to a plate and set aside.  Repeat with remaining beef.

     5).  Carefully pour in about 1/5 of the bottle of wine.  Stir to scrape up any browned bits from the bottom of the pot (keep it in; that's flavor!).

     6).  Reduce the heat to medium.  Add the carrots, potatoes, onion, with 2 pinches of salt and 2 of pepper.  Sauté until the onions are lightly browned (about 15 minutes).

     7).  Stir in the garlic and tomato paste and cook for another minutes or two until fragrant.

     8).  Return the beef and bacon to the pot, along with any juices that have collected on the plate.

     9).  Add the remaining wine and broth.  Add the thyme and bay leaves.  Increase the heat to bring the liquid to a simmer.

     10).  Cover, then carefully transfer the pot to the oven.  Bake the beef bourguignon for 1.5 hours at 370 degrees until the meat and vegetables are fork tender.

     11).  In a small bowl, mash 2 tbsp butter and 2 tbsp flour together, then stir into the stew.

     12).  Stir in the pearl onions and mushrooms.  Bring the stew to a boil, then lower the heat and let simmer for 20 minutes.  Remove the thyme bundle and bay leaves before serving.  Salt and pepper to taste.

Accompany with warm bread and a bottle of Pinot or Cab.

SERVES 8 

7th & Trinity

The man on the streetcorner huffs and puffs

and blows an angry wind at the passersby.

The passersby recoil from his bloodshot eyes,

his blistered neck and forearms,

his indignant, wire-brush hair.

He argues aloud with himself.

Only the crimson-faced woman who swears

that Elvis speaks to her through the commode

will challenge him.

They shout absurdities in each other's direction

while anxious pedestrians hurry past,

eager to avoid eye contact.

The pedestrians also carry on a conversation

with themselves,

one which, if audible, would showcase

all of the terror and rage and neuroticism

that mixes into our human predicament.

Vehicle traffic passes with indifference.

Drivers hurl terrible indignities

at their fellow motorists.

A couple stumbles into the road and is nearly

taken out by a tour bus.

The bus collides with an SUV,

underscoring the razor-thin margin

that separates the fortunate from the forsaken.

Each of us is one medical catastrophe,

one financial devastation,

one tragic step from tipping into the abyss.

So, hold grace for the man on the streetcorner,

grace for the crimson-faced sister,

grace for pedestrians and motorists

and all whose fate balances on the knife's edge.

For you and me, 

hold grace.

Iyla Grace 12.0

   Iyla Grace 12.0 is a Tween!  Just look at this young lady:  she wears makeup; she has attitude; she converses endlessly with her friends; is obessessed with Taylor ("Tay Tay") Swift and similiar artists.

   This was the first Halloween I did not take Iyla Trick-or-Treating.  It hurt my Papa heart to hear her say, "I'm sorry, Papa, but I want to go with my friends."  She is growing up, and I must let her.

   For Iyla's birthday, she will receive an iWatch so that we may communicate with her and know her location at all times ... She wanted a phone, but, we are not ready for that.

   Art and Theater remain passions.  Iyla is enrolled in Choir and Musical Theater at Middle School and participates in a private theater conservatory on weekends.

   I love her so much ... Happy Birthday, my Darling Iyla Grace!

Tongues

Brothers and Sisters,

raise your hands to the Lord.

Invite his Holy Spirit to fill your vessel

with his wonderous love.

 

Hallelujah!  Can I get an 'Amen'?

 

Ah-shah-la-la Me-kah-show-nah-teh,

Oh-nah-tah-shah Me-kah-tah-neh

Key-lo-mah-tah-tah-weh.

Speaking in Tounges, they called it.

Most merely stood in their pew

uttering at the ceiling,

our Old Man among them.

I studied his cadence and learned

to mimic the routine

so as not to be singled out for unbelief.

The grander the display the brighter

the accolades from church elders.

Some danced in the aisles.

Others launched into convulsive fits.

The best of them was Sister Mary Hoagarten,

a lowly widow from East Kansas City

with a silver bird's nest of hair

and bellowing, staccato delivery.

Mary committed to her performance.

She was method,

drawing from a boundless well

of resentment and betrayal

to deliver her weekly self-exorcism.

Mary writhed and howled,

trembled and flailed about,

always ending her number with a flurry

of guttural yawps that climaxed

in an abrupt silence which

centered the congratation

in solemn reflection.

Mary enjoyed a long and storied run

as the High Priestess of Spectacle,

until Lester Hollinger joined the congregation.

Brother Lester was a towering, erudite man,

always in the same charcoal undertaker's suit.

He never missed an opportunity

to showcase his biblical memorization.

One Sunday morning,

Lester descended from the foyer

and assisted Mary off the carpet.

He ushered her to her seat,

shuffled to the microphone,

cleared his throat,

and delivered an 

Interpretation of Tongues:

Praise the Lord.  Our Heavenly Father

has revealed to me, his humble servant,
the message hidden within 

Sister Mary's utterance.

 

Indeed, it is a passage from the Holy Book, 

I Corinthians 14:27-28:

 

'Let her keep silent in the church, 

and let her speak only to herself and to God.'

Eloise Jane 8.0

     Eloise Jane version 8.0 drops today.  This release is packed with curiosity and affection for animals and insects.  Eloise consumes endless video content about the animal world.  She desires an army of pets.  She scolds me for killing hornets and scorpions in the house, pleading with their executioner to show mercy.

     For her birthday, Eloise is receiving the gift of (and responsibility for) chickens.  Let's hope that, come v9.0 release, those chickens are still clucking.

     Happy Birthday, Miss Eloise Jane Lambert.  You make my heart oh so very happy!

W.S.B.

He occupied a ramshackle place

on the east side of town

with an entourage of cats, an arsenal of guns,

revolving celebrity guests.

Rumor circulated 'round the English Department

that he frequented The Bottleneck bar.

One November afternoon, I spotted him there,

crouched alone in a corner, pressed herringbone suit,

hickory-sword cane tap-tap-tapping to the music.

Our bartender whispered that he took tequila,

so I purchased two shots and approached.

"Pardon me, Mr. Burroughs.

I am just a B-I-G admirer

of your writing ...

May I offer you a tequila, Sir?"

"Why, certainly, young man."

We tossed back our shots.

I retrieved the glasses, and he eyeballed me

with his steely, cobalt eyes.

I fell into a trance waiting for him to blink:

These are the eyes that starred down

the barrel of a revolver

pointed at his wife's cranium (pow!),

eyes that peered unflinchingly

into a drug-crazed abyss,

eyes that crawled like an insect over

countless young male bodies.

The band lurched into a new song

and a curiosity sparked in my groin,

rocketed up my spine and burst into a dull haze

that rendered me speechless:

Is this old queen expecting a come-on?!

I'd have liked to impress the Godfather of the Beats

with tales of imagined literary exploits,

or regale him with a deliciously irreverent anecdote,

at least praise his influence on a moral code

skeptical of monotonous conformity.

Instead, I stood before the man an imbecile,

barely mustering an oafish smile,

which he met—bless him—with a kindly grin

that pierced my anxious fever.

I retreated to the bar.

"How did it go?" the bartender asked.

"Oh, brilliant ... Yeah ...

One for the memoires."

And some say it was William Burroughs,

not Thomas Lambert,

who brought the literary bona fides

to Lawrence, Kansas.

**First published in Fjords Review