Chocolate: Raw nuts/seeds.
Oily/Fatty Snacks: Kale, leafy greens.
Soda/Carbonated Drinks: Actual, literal bubbles.
Chips/Salty Food: Topsoil.
Cookies: Freudian psychology.
Sweet Tea: A strong Southern gentleman to take care of you.
Ice: The sweet release of death.
the damn processing never ENDS.
I have daddy issues. I have mommy issues. I look for parent figures everywhere. Today I saw some old professors and I just wanted them to hug me and tell me that I was so smart and they were so proud of me. And that I was not a disappointment, never ever could disappoint them, I am doing just fine. I hate that therapy-speak about re-parenting and finding the inner child and yet what else am I doing but that?
Things I am thinking about…
Puritanism, richness exceeding in tongue. Embodying language is easier for me, which is my Protestant inheritance. I think I am alienated from my body, I never understand what it is telling me.
Ravens taller than my knees. My sister went to Germany land of fairy-tales…
I kept the little ruin near me, I stowed it in the kitchen,
it sat in the pantry, like a jar of reddest jam,
it sang me songs of seafaring, it said the “weather being fine,”
I listened to it breathe, shiver brokenly in time,
I believed a multitude stood between us, four seasons,
the meaningless physical world, and a grammar primer,
you could see how I found it necessary,
with its immodest appeals, its constant state of déshabillé,
it is small for its age, it is too wide-awake,
so my sewing came undone with the years,
I stalked myself to the open door, the unlatched gate,
ma petite is a world sold of charms, it loves a new act,
has a leer for a mouth, has indecorous energy,
I ran from the spring glee of it, I radioed ahead,
oh I unplanned a lifetime, turned my gaze to the west,
but then it said it would make something of us both,
the sound of it touched me, fat in its cracked sadness,
it was homemade all along, it was oddly necessary,
I looked back like Lot’s wife, like the exhausted mirage
that I was, and the loveliest salt taste was whelming us,
both awash in a light of knives, and the wind it was shifting like this—