We Strike For Shore in Our Small Boats, Though We Won't Make It.

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Last night I dreamed I was back in the Coast Guard.


I saw my old captain, Ltjg. Alexander.

I saw Nob, the old cook.

The sea was dark and heaving beneath our gleaming white cutter.


I was happy as a pig in shit.

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Something in me does love the harsh sea.



Though I know her, and should fear her better.


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Today I am making Pho. I have made a stock with chicken stock and garlic and flame-charred ginger and sweet onions and star anise and cinnamon and fish sauce and lime juice and soy sauce and brown sugar and serrano chiles.

I will yet add mint and basil and cilantro and red onion and green onion and caramelized pork chops and whatever the hell else I can find to throw in there.


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Here it is:

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I have cleaned the house until it gleams and ditto for the dog.




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We are all for the boneyard.


Let's eat good in the meantime, shall we?


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Namaste.

Bullet and Buddha, Casa De Lavaplatos Lacrimos Y La Mujer En El Borde      

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