The Slowdown: Poetry & Reflection Daily

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The Slowdown: Poetry & Reflection Daily episodes

July 16, 2020 429: Bliss Point or What Can Best Be Achieved by Cheese
This week, we’re featuring poems about food and all the many ways it sustains us. Because food is community and memory. It’s struggle, joy, and so much more.
Read an automated transcript
Bliss Point or What Can Best Be Achieved by Cheese
by Benjamin Garcia
A.k.a.
the other gold.
Now that’s the stuff,
shredded or melted
or powdered
or canned.
Behold
the pinnacle of man
in a cheeto puff!
Now that’s the stuff
you’ve been primed for:
fatty & salty & crunchy
and poof—gone. There’s the proof.
Though your grandmother
never even had one. You can’t
have just one. You
inhale them puff—
after puff—
after puff—
You’re a chain smoker. Tongue
coated & coaxed
but not saturated or satiated.
It’s like pure flavor,
but sadder. Each pink ping
in your pinball-mouth
expertly played
by the makers who have studied you,
the human animal, and culled
from the rind
your Eve in the shape
of a cheese curl.
Girl,
come curl in the dim light of the TV.
Veg out on the verge of no urge
of anything.
Long ago we beached ourselves,
climbed up the trees then
down the trees,
knuckled across the dirt
& grasses & thorns & Berber carpet.
Now is the age of sitting,
so sit.
And I must say,
crouched on the couch like that,
you resemble no animal.
Smug in your Snuggie and snug
in your sloth, you look
nothing like a sloth.
And you are not an anteater,
an anteater eats ants
without fear
of diabetes. Though breathing,
one could say, resembles a chronic disease.
What’s real
cheese and what is cheese product?
It’s difficult to say
but being alive today
is real-
real-
really
like a book you can’t put down, a stone
that plummets from a great height. Life’s
a “page-turner” alright.
But don’t worry
if you miss the finale
of your favorite show, you can
catch it on queue. Make room
for me and I’ll binge on this,
the final season with you.
"Bliss Point or What Can Best Be Achieved by Cheese," by Benjamin Garcia. Used by permission of the poet.
5 min
July 16, 2020 429: Bliss Point or What Can Best Be Achieved by Cheese
This week, we’re featuring poems about food and all the many ways it sustains us. Because food is community and memory. It’s struggle, joy, and so much more.
Read an automated transcript
Bliss Point or What Can Best Be Achieved by Cheese
by Benjamin Garcia
A.k.a.
the other gold.
Now that’s the stuff,
shredded or melted
or powdered
or canned.
Behold
the pinnacle of man
in a cheeto puff!
Now that’s the stuff
you’ve been primed for:
fatty & salty & crunchy
and poof—gone. There’s the proof.
Though your grandmother
never even had one. You can’t
have just one. You
inhale them puff—
after puff—
after puff—
You’re a chain smoker. Tongue
coated & coaxed
but not saturated or satiated.
It’s like pure flavor,
but sadder. Each pink ping
in your pinball-mouth
expertly played
by the makers who have studied you,
the human animal, and culled
from the rind
your Eve in the shape
of a cheese curl.
Girl,
come curl in the dim light of the TV.
Veg out on the verge of no urge
of anything.
Long ago we beached ourselves,
climbed up the trees then
down the trees,
knuckled across the dirt
& grasses & thorns & Berber carpet.
Now is the age of sitting,
so sit.
And I must say,
crouched on the couch like that,
you resemble no animal.
Smug in your Snuggie and snug
in your sloth, you look
nothing like a sloth.
And you are not an anteater,
an anteater eats ants
without fear
of diabetes. Though breathing,
one could say, resembles a chronic disease.
What’s real
cheese and what is cheese product?
It’s difficult to say
but being alive today
is real-
real-
really
like a book you can’t put down, a stone
that plummets from a great height. Life’s
a “page-turner” alright.
But don’t worry
if you miss the finale
of your favorite show, you can
catch it on queue. Make room
for me and I’ll binge on this,
the final season with you.
"Bliss Point or What Can Best Be Achieved by Cheese," by Benjamin Garcia. Used by permission of the poet.
5 min
July 15, 2020 428: Oxtail Stew
This week, we’re featuring poems about food and all the many ways it sustains us. Because food is community and memory. It’s struggle, joy, and so much more.
Read an automated transcript
Oxtail Stew
by David Dominguez
At five o’clock in the morning,
I walked to work and passed the green ponds
of Horizon Park where the last bluegill,
caught on the low, slight bank,
panted hard in the dark mud, crushed glass,
sour bottle caps, whiskey,
and the iron weight of heat and smog.
This haze stared through eyes
gray as the broken window panes
on the cheap side of town,
and when this haze held you
and whispered in your ears its quiet tragedies,
it stole your breath quick as time.
This is where men gathered to sell peanuts,
buckets of oranges, and roses,
and they sat on the benches and watched
the trucks drive by and disappear.
What I want to say is simple:
a man must do more than sell roses
where the bums go and beg—
he must keep something holy.
He must breathe the winds
that rustle the orchards of the valley
where the white almond blooms
replenish with their soft scent.
He must learn from the Appaloosa
when she walks in from the fields
and bows her head to a trough of water
that reflects nothing but her eyes and the stars.
Shoulder, fat, bone, and loose sheet metal
banged out a day-long cacophony.
Twenty-eight pounds of spice
had to be mixed before the grinder was done.
Mustard powder, paprika, salt,
and chili powder boiled in my nose,
in my eyes, and in the red throb
of my hard nicked-up knuckles.
By late morning the meat defrosted,
and the boxes began their ooze.
Pig parts became easy to recognize.
Eighty pounds of guts, kidneys,
and stomach fell across my chest
each time a box ripped apart.
We dared not stop the music of our work:
the clack of a clean pine pallet,
pink meat and white fat ground to a pulp,
sweetened, stuffed, and crimped,
the chorizo boxed, the boxes labeled,
stacked, and wrapped.
At lunch, I watched Guillermo hunker over the table
and dig into his stew—carrots, potatoes,
celery, oxtail, and gravy, made from
chili peppers and fat, smoldering in a ceramic bowl.
Guillermo took out a white cotton napkin
and spread it evenly across his lap,
picked up a piece of sourdough ripped
from a loaf and soaked the bread in the stew
for a long time . . . his own tired body
taking back what the work took, and he ate.
He sucked on chili peppers the color of blood
and took another bite of the bread.
He sucked out the beef from the eyes of the bones
and gnawed on the soft marrow,
and he drank hot coffee sweetened con canela.
“Eloisa,” he said, “can cook,” and he touched
the brown lace crocheted into the edge
of his cotton napkin, rubbed his gut, wiped the table,
and walked out to complete his work.
"Oxtail Stew" by David Dominguez, from WORK DONE RIGHT by David Dominguez, copyright © 2003 David Dominguez. Used by permission of the University of Arizona Press.
5 min
July 15, 2020 428: Oxtail Stew
This week, we’re featuring poems about food and all the many ways it sustains us. Because food is community and memory. It’s struggle, joy, and so much more.
Read an automated transcript
Oxtail Stew
by David Dominguez
At five o’clock in the morning,
I walked to work and passed the green ponds
of Horizon Park where the last bluegill,
caught on the low, slight bank,
panted hard in the dark mud, crushed glass,
sour bottle caps, whiskey,
and the iron weight of heat and smog.
This haze stared through eyes
gray as the broken window panes
on the cheap side of town,
and when this haze held you
and whispered in your ears its quiet tragedies,
it stole your breath quick as time.
This is where men gathered to sell peanuts,
buckets of oranges, and roses,
and they sat on the benches and watched
the trucks drive by and disappear.
What I want to say is simple:
a man must do more than sell roses
where the bums go and beg—
he must keep something holy.
He must breathe the winds
that rustle the orchards of the valley
where the white almond blooms
replenish with their soft scent.
He must learn from the Appaloosa
when she walks in from the fields
and bows her head to a trough of water
that reflects nothing but her eyes and the stars.
Shoulder, fat, bone, and loose sheet metal
banged out a day-long cacophony.
Twenty-eight pounds of spice
had to be mixed before the grinder was done.
Mustard powder, paprika, salt,
and chili powder boiled in my nose,
in my eyes, and in the red throb
of my hard nicked-up knuckles.
By late morning the meat defrosted,
and the boxes began their ooze.
Pig parts became easy to recognize.
Eighty pounds of guts, kidneys,
and stomach fell across my chest
each time a box ripped apart.
We dared not stop the music of our work:
the clack of a clean pine pallet,
pink meat and white fat ground to a pulp,
sweetened, stuffed, and crimped,
the chorizo boxed, the boxes labeled,
stacked, and wrapped.
At lunch, I watched Guillermo hunker over the table
and dig into his stew—carrots, potatoes,
celery, oxtail, and gravy, made from
chili peppers and fat, smoldering in a ceramic bowl.
Guillermo took out a white cotton napkin
and spread it evenly across his lap,
picked up a piece of sourdough ripped
from a loaf and soaked the bread in the stew
for a long time . . . his own tired body
taking back what the work took, and he ate.
He sucked on chili peppers the color of blood
and took another bite of the bread.
He sucked out the beef from the eyes of the bones
and gnawed on the soft marrow,
and he drank hot coffee sweetened con canela.
“Eloisa,” he said, “can cook,” and he touched
the brown lace crocheted into the edge
of his cotton napkin, rubbed his gut, wiped the table,
and walked out to complete his work.
"Oxtail Stew" by David Dominguez, from WORK DONE RIGHT by David Dominguez, copyright © 2003 David Dominguez. Used by permission of the University of Arizona Press.
5 min
July 15, 2020 428: Oxtail Stew
This week, we’re featuring poems about food and all the many ways it sustains us. Because food is community and memory. It’s struggle, joy, and so much more.
Read an automated transcript
Oxtail Stew
by David Dominguez
At five o’clock in the morning,
I walked to work and passed the green ponds
of Horizon Park where the last bluegill,
caught on the low, slight bank,
panted hard in the dark mud, crushed glass,
sour bottle caps, whiskey,
and the iron weight of heat and smog.
This haze stared through eyes
gray as the broken window panes
on the cheap side of town,
and when this haze held you
and whispered in your ears its quiet tragedies,
it stole your breath quick as time.
This is where men gathered to sell peanuts,
buckets of oranges, and roses,
and they sat on the benches and watched
the trucks drive by and disappear.
What I want to say is simple:
a man must do more than sell roses
where the bums go and beg—
he must keep something holy.
He must breathe the winds
that rustle the orchards of the valley
where the white almond blooms
replenish with their soft scent.
He must learn from the Appaloosa
when she walks in from the fields
and bows her head to a trough of water
that reflects nothing but her eyes and the stars.
Shoulder, fat, bone, and loose sheet metal
banged out a day-long cacophony.
Twenty-eight pounds of spice
had to be mixed before the grinder was done.
Mustard powder, paprika, salt,
and chili powder boiled in my nose,
in my eyes, and in the red throb
of my hard nicked-up knuckles.
By late morning the meat defrosted,
and the boxes began their ooze.
Pig parts became easy to recognize.
Eighty pounds of guts, kidneys,
and stomach fell across my chest
each time a box ripped apart.
We dared not stop the music of our work:
the clack of a clean pine pallet,
pink meat and white fat ground to a pulp,
sweetened, stuffed, and crimped,
the chorizo boxed, the boxes labeled,
stacked, and wrapped.
At lunch, I watched Guillermo hunker over the table
and dig into his stew—carrots, potatoes,
celery, oxtail, and gravy, made from
chili peppers and fat, smoldering in a ceramic bowl.
Guillermo took out a white cotton napkin
and spread it evenly across his lap,
picked up a piece of sourdough ripped
from a loaf and soaked the bread in the stew
for a long time . . . his own tired body
taking back what the work took, and he ate.
He sucked on chili peppers the color of blood
and took another bite of the bread.
He sucked out the beef from the eyes of the bones
and gnawed on the soft marrow,
and he drank hot coffee sweetened con canela.
“Eloisa,” he said, “can cook,” and he touched
the brown lace crocheted into the edge
of his cotton napkin, rubbed his gut, wiped the table,
and walked out to complete his work.
"Oxtail Stew" by David Dominguez, from WORK DONE RIGHT by David Dominguez, copyright © 2003 David Dominguez. Used by permission of the University of Arizona Press.
5 min
July 15, 2020 428: Oxtail Stew
This week, we’re featuring poems about food and all the many ways it sustains us. Because food is community and memory. It’s struggle, joy, and so much more.
Read an automated transcript
Oxtail Stew
by David Dominguez
At five o’clock in the morning,
I walked to work and passed the green ponds
of Horizon Park where the last bluegill,
caught on the low, slight bank,
panted hard in the dark mud, crushed glass,
sour bottle caps, whiskey,
and the iron weight of heat and smog.
This haze stared through eyes
gray as the broken window panes
on the cheap side of town,
and when this haze held you
and whispered in your ears its quiet tragedies,
it stole your breath quick as time.
This is where men gathered to sell peanuts,
buckets of oranges, and roses,
and they sat on the benches and watched
the trucks drive by and disappear.
What I want to say is simple:
a man must do more than sell roses
where the bums go and beg—
he must keep something holy.
He must breathe the winds
that rustle the orchards of the valley
where the white almond blooms
replenish with their soft scent.
He must learn from the Appaloosa
when she walks in from the fields
and bows her head to a trough of water
that reflects nothing but her eyes and the stars.
Shoulder, fat, bone, and loose sheet metal
banged out a day-long cacophony.
Twenty-eight pounds of spice
had to be mixed before the grinder was done.
Mustard powder, paprika, salt,
and chili powder boiled in my nose,
in my eyes, and in the red throb
of my hard nicked-up knuckles.
By late morning the meat defrosted,
and the boxes began their ooze.
Pig parts became easy to recognize.
Eighty pounds of guts, kidneys,
and stomach fell across my chest
each time a box ripped apart.
We dared not stop the music of our work:
the clack of a clean pine pallet,
pink meat and white fat ground to a pulp,
sweetened, stuffed, and crimped,
the chorizo boxed, the boxes labeled,
stacked, and wrapped.
At lunch, I watched Guillermo hunker over the table
and dig into his stew—carrots, potatoes,
celery, oxtail, and gravy, made from
chili peppers and fat, smoldering in a ceramic bowl.
Guillermo took out a white cotton napkin
and spread it evenly across his lap,
picked up a piece of sourdough ripped
from a loaf and soaked the bread in the stew
for a long time . . . his own tired body
taking back what the work took, and he ate.
He sucked on chili peppers the color of blood
and took another bite of the bread.
He sucked out the beef from the eyes of the bones
and gnawed on the soft marrow,
and he drank hot coffee sweetened con canela.
“Eloisa,” he said, “can cook,” and he touched
the brown lace crocheted into the edge
of his cotton napkin, rubbed his gut, wiped the table,
and walked out to complete his work.
"Oxtail Stew" by David Dominguez, from WORK DONE RIGHT by David Dominguez, copyright © 2003 David Dominguez. Used by permission of the University of Arizona Press.
5 min
July 14, 2020 427: Butter
This week, we’re featuring poems about food and all the many ways it sustains us. Because food is community and memory. It’s struggle, joy, and so much more.
Read an automated transcript
Butter
by Elizabeth Alexander
My mother loves butter more than I do,
more than anyone. She pulls chunks off
the stick and eats it plain, explaining
cream spun around into butter! Growing up
we ate turkey cutlets sauteed in lemon
and butter, butter and cheese on green noodles,
butter melting in small pools in the hearts
of Yorkshire puddings, butter better
than gravy staining white rice yellow,
butter glazing corn in slipping squares,
butter the lava in white volcanoes
of hominy grits, butter softening
in a white bowl to be creamed with white
sugar, butter disappearing into
whipped sweet potatoes, with pineapple,
butter melted and curdy to pour
over pancakes, butter licked off the plate
with warm Alaga syrup. When I picture
the good old days I am grinning greasy
with my brother, having watched the tiger
chase his tail and turn to butter. We are
Mumbo and Jumbo’s children despite
historical revision, despite
our parent’s efforts, glowing from the inside
out, one hundred megawatts of butter.
"Butter" by Elizabeth Alexander, from CRAVE RADIANCE by Elizabeth Alexander, copyright © 2012 Elizabeth Alexander. Used by permission of Graywolf Press.
5 min
July 14, 2020 427: Butter
This week, we’re featuring poems about food and all the many ways it sustains us. Because food is community and memory. It’s struggle, joy, and so much more.
Read an automated transcript
Butter
by Elizabeth Alexander
My mother loves butter more than I do,
more than anyone. She pulls chunks off
the stick and eats it plain, explaining
cream spun around into butter! Growing up
we ate turkey cutlets sauteed in lemon
and butter, butter and cheese on green noodles,
butter melting in small pools in the hearts
of Yorkshire puddings, butter better
than gravy staining white rice yellow,
butter glazing corn in slipping squares,
butter the lava in white volcanoes
of hominy grits, butter softening
in a white bowl to be creamed with white
sugar, butter disappearing into
whipped sweet potatoes, with pineapple,
butter melted and curdy to pour
over pancakes, butter licked off the plate
with warm Alaga syrup. When I picture
the good old days I am grinning greasy
with my brother, having watched the tiger
chase his tail and turn to butter. We are
Mumbo and Jumbo’s children despite
historical revision, despite
our parent’s efforts, glowing from the inside
out, one hundred megawatts of butter.
"Butter" by Elizabeth Alexander, from CRAVE RADIANCE by Elizabeth Alexander, copyright © 2012 Elizabeth Alexander. Used by permission of Graywolf Press.
5 min
July 13, 2020 426: Lesson: Chicken Soup
This week, we’re featuring poems about food and all the many ways it sustains us. Because food is community and memory. It’s struggle, joy, and so much more.
Read an automated transcript
Lesson: Chicken Soup
by Christine Kitano
My grandmother pours salt
into my right palm, places thin slivers
of garlic in my left. She explains
something about blood, how to salt
the raw bird to drain its fluids,
but my mind already wanders:
I watch the chicken shrivel but compose
instead the grandfather I’ve only met
in story: daybreak, he’s just finished
mopping up in the buildings
that sculpt this city’s skyline, but it’s
someone else’s view of Los Angeles.
The immigrant sees, not the postcard-perfect lights,
but the scuffed tiles, dust-lined desks, the darkening
throats of toilet after toilet.
Home, he tiptoes upstairs not to wake
his daughters, holding his shoes
like a thief. He’s fired
for stealing a roll of toilet paper, a can of soda
for my mother. Children are nothing
but trouble, my grandmother says,
shaking a wooden spoon. My mother claims
the story otherwise: it was she
who accompanied father to work, she
who stole a box of stale donuts, she
who lost the family’s first job. Grandmother
shrugs and repeats the same
conclusion. Never have children, she says,
though her expression is hidden
by the steam now rising from the pot.
It’s a simple recipe: boil until the meat
falls from the bones, easy, like a girl
shedding a summer dress.
Last night, I cooked for friends.
After dinner, my friend handed me
his one-month son, who only
blinked when I nudged my thumb
into his fist. Earlier, washing the pale
bird, I struggled to keep the body
from slipping through my hands: I held
its small-fleshed form under cold water,
pulled the giblets out the round hollow
between its ribs and was surprised
to be surprised when it didn’t
make a sound.
"Lesson: Chicken Soup" by Christine Kitano, from SKY COUNTRY by Christine Kitano, copyright © 2017 Christine Kitano. Used by permission of BOA Editions.
5 min
July 13, 2020 426: Lesson: Chicken Soup
This week, we’re featuring poems about food and all the many ways it sustains us. Because food is community and memory. It’s struggle, joy, and so much more.
Read an automated transcript
Lesson: Chicken Soup
by Christine Kitano
My grandmother pours salt
into my right palm, places thin slivers
of garlic in my left. She explains
something about blood, how to salt
the raw bird to drain its fluids,
but my mind already wanders:
I watch the chicken shrivel but compose
instead the grandfather I’ve only met
in story: daybreak, he’s just finished
mopping up in the buildings
that sculpt this city’s skyline, but it’s
someone else’s view of Los Angeles.
The immigrant sees, not the postcard-perfect lights,
but the scuffed tiles, dust-lined desks, the darkening
throats of toilet after toilet.
Home, he tiptoes upstairs not to wake
his daughters, holding his shoes
like a thief. He’s fired
for stealing a roll of toilet paper, a can of soda
for my mother. Children are nothing
but trouble, my grandmother says,
shaking a wooden spoon. My mother claims
the story otherwise: it was she
who accompanied father to work, she
who stole a box of stale donuts, she
who lost the family’s first job. Grandmother
shrugs and repeats the same
conclusion. Never have children, she says,
though her expression is hidden
by the steam now rising from the pot.
It’s a simple recipe: boil until the meat
falls from the bones, easy, like a girl
shedding a summer dress.
Last night, I cooked for friends.
After dinner, my friend handed me
his one-month son, who only
blinked when I nudged my thumb
into his fist. Earlier, washing the pale
bird, I struggled to keep the body
from slipping through my hands: I held
its small-fleshed form under cold water,
pulled the giblets out the round hollow
between its ribs and was surprised
to be surprised when it didn’t
make a sound.
"Lesson: Chicken Soup" by Christine Kitano, from SKY COUNTRY by Christine Kitano, copyright © 2017 Christine Kitano. Used by permission of BOA Editions.
5 min

About The Slowdown: Poetry & Reflection Daily

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Host Maggie Smith is your daily poetry companion. Poetry is one of the greatest tools we have to wield our own attention — to consider our own lives and the lives of others, to help us live creatively…