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needles needling needlessly with little thread... or much of anything else...

(foolish dribbles to be written at uncertain times, on an irregular basis, from uncertain sections of the ever expending universe, and from whatever dimension I-We-Us-Them might find ourselves/ myself in …)

Thursday, March 31, 2005

THE BOXER BOXED IN 


This makes no sense. What language should I use? For speaking in tongues? I am no prophet. I know not what the grand plan is or might be. I have no clue. I am, to make it as clear as lightning, clueless. Barely can I capture the hints of outer influences on my private life of being ME. Barely... and I mean I cannot even see almost cannot even notice the nudges from sources other than me, sources which aren’t produced or instigated by me... barely can I even notice what is me and what isn’t. I am a walking punching bag unaware of my nature constantly beat upon by outside influences, and I can barely differentiate one from the other... I am the boxer too, that golden glove feather weight holder of the title wannabe. Texas boxing blues. I am the punching bag and the golden eyed boxer. I am the trash gym metal walls and sweat soaked gloves. I am the teeth protector, the mouth-piece, I am the jock-strap, and the athlete’s foot mushroom. This makes no sense. What language should I use?

PARANOID 


Before midnight rings in
the new day
before I go to sleep on my futon
and trust the gods
to keep me safe till morning

I am paranoid

that the rats might get me
in my sleep.

This is a true fear
one which gnaws at me
whenever I am too sober
to pass out
and too drunk
            to know better.

I AM FREE 


I

(yes the magical I
springing up here
and there
catching up behind its alter ego:
you)

AM

(yes the magical signifier of being
and admittance of self
of conscience and choice
cognizant of my personal limitations
and potential abilities)

FREE

(yes the magical word
which solves all questions
though itself a lie
not being a possibility ever
within the spheres we’ve been given ourselves
to work with in this world.)

(A life driven by the ego through the power of a lie.)

(Is this what being a sentient free-thinking individual is?)

I – you or whatever you want me to think that I am – AM – not – FREE.

ADVICE FOR A CERTAIN FORM OF PARANOIA 


You are not the plotting
calculating master
of witless innocent sardines

Your are a bumbling idiot
swimming blind
within a school of sharks.

WHAT I AM NOT 


        Point    :

                        I AM NOT

              Kissinger    !

This comes as
                no surprise

to most              people

    even the slower ones.

I am not
               SO I am not
               SO many more things
I am not
               SO many more things
many more things
         like...

                  vinegar

though I do admit to sometimes dreaming rotten dreams

                              rot
          beyond the                NOBLE type

the kind of rot which we like

which smells
               of fermented sugar

     rather than bitter vinegar...

                           (Which means not
         that I think myself noble worthy in any sort of way
         because this would connote the ambition of power

                  -     I am but white trash
                                        after all
                grown up in a trashy motel washing dishes next door -

I AM NOT                                              not being SO

                at least of hopes
            of class acceptation
                beyond one’s birth
                    of notions

                                since nobility usually works through blood
        it is all rot to me
    blue or red
                        and the nobler the blood
                        the more rotten the vinegar

unlike wine.)

     I AM NOT
                    nor do I plan on becoming

     VineGAR.

ADVICE FOR A CERTAIN FORM OF PARANOIA 


You are not the selfless
innocent victim
of plotting backstabbing sharks

You are a bumbling idiot
swimming blind
within a school of sardines.

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

WAVES 


The last show
will not be shown tonight
as in every night
the last show
will be postponed till tomorrow.

WAVES 


The music undulated
reincarnates whatever the last phrase
was
or once was
with a little more strength
or a little more height
or a little less
flattening out
rolling towards you
or away from you
but rolling into great balls of water
constantly reinventing itself
what was
instantly gone
and recreated almost perfectly
and reenacted almost to the letter
with just a tad bit more
or a tad bit less
and instantly gone forever
and instantly reborn forever
each roll in itself a thousand rolls
each growth visible
in itself a million lives born and died
and grown from cell to adult to dust
in fractions
the music undulated.

WAVES 


My peach tree
has started to bloom
soon pink flowers
will adorn
what looks like a twig.

Tuesday, March 29, 2005

JASMINE DREAM 


The dogs have torn a plant of mine. Jasmine. I’d wanted to let it grow, let it attach itself to the fence by the front door, growing like a vine. And come that time when they would have flowered, I’d hoped, the fragrance would have come in the house like tiny white petals smelling of fancy soap carried in on the wings of butterflies. This is what I wanted rather than what I’m getting now, the distinct smell of dog shit which comes unsuspected through the very wood of the walls of the house. A gust of wind sweeps down into the grass and whips it straight at me catching me unaware each time. Horse manure is way better.

Sunday, March 27, 2005

TURNING 


I noticed a bicycle wheel
turning on to itself
as if in mid-wind
underneath the carcass of the dead car
alone the last to follow through
quietly
incredibly
so without verve and simply turning
onto itself as if an afterthought.

Saturday, March 26, 2005

HOLE GATHERING 


This none of this makes any stand still NOTHING. Like I was reading some proper poetry today by some proper poet who wrote proper you know what and IIFFFFF I have to repeat myself one more FUCkinGGGG time I might just explode and jam up the place. Okay... OKAY, I’m just doing fine here tonight though it’s wet outside raining non-stop falling buckets and PRAY no hail tonight cause the foliage got all torn up, that new brand freaking spranged up green from this yet not started though almost SPRING. Yes, sirREEEE, it’s all got torned and is on the ground green fresh like little fresh little green babies torn from their branches and spread on the pavement ground from the hail falling and tearing it all apart like a wild rocking party. Yes SIR reEEE!! This none of this is gotten understood from the mouth it fell upon to be spoken and NONE of this makes much sense being spoken from one who done got it all wrong. It’s heads down straight into the hole.

IMPOTENT WORDS 


There were
were some words I thought about
earlier in the car driving to work
but I’ve forgotten
what those words were.

They repeated themselves
they were repetitive, we should say
talking about a subject quite dear to me
which I can’t remember
either
over and over and over again
with little variance.

I was driving
the car
my car
the one I own
legally
and it was sunny
outside
though last night
it hadn’t been
anything but
and in the car
my car
the one I own
legally
I was talking out loud to nobody
in particular
other than myself
and I was making notes
mental
blocked in oval
groped at and stored away
gloved on
glove box blues
forgotten
I can’t think the first thing it was
there
though I’d promised myself
I wouldn’t forget.

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

LIMELIGHT BLUES 


The boy who cried WOLF
from the steeples
from the balconies
from the way back fauteuils
from the red velvet second story
of the theater...

(I meant: ‘FIRE’)

“FIRE FIRE FIRE FIRE!!!” he yelled.

Was trying for the old trick
the old never polished brick
the red earthy ones which always work
no matter the wall
no matter the house
no matter the size of the hole
no matter the skeleton
skipping out from the closets merely singing
skeleton songs
bony tempting songs reminiscing the once was
of a colorful past life entertained in songs
you’d like now to forget no matter what...

WHITE POWDERED STRENGHT OF FLOWERS

no matter the rot to be covered
no matter the lies to be smothered
no matter the sickness to be beautified
no matter what they always work
and cover the wall
with a new wall
blocking the view of the old wall
the one we wanted to hide.

Hiding a wall with a wall
of a different size
and a different name
and a different scheme
of different supposedly necessary different words
and problems invented on the spot
creating inertia and movement
all on its own
while we forget all together the old
WALL
(the one we wanted to take down
but have now forgot.)

“FIRE FIRE FIRE FIRE!!!” he yelled.

And it worked
back door farewell slip away
grown tired of the refrain.

And it worked
the crowd mollified stampede feed
trying all to fit through the front door
all at once

while the boy slips out
the back door
farewell way
pulling a jimmy on the spectators
of the show.

(To explain – in simpler terms –
the boy who cried
had been far too long
in the limelight
much more than the show
going on
on stage...
          and he wanted OUT...)

NARRATION + IMAGERIES + SEEMING RANDOMNESS 


Tend to loose the thread is what I tend to do with the narrative whenever I freestyle within my lack of linguistic capacities. Tend to be erroneous not only in style but mostly in continuity. AS IN there ain’t no meaning to what I’m saying narrative-wise. The story, if there is a story at all, tends to not go from A to B and definitely nowhere near any Z that I can gather. Tend to loose the thread of the story. Tend to loose the location of potential characters alive or merely created for the representation of what I’m thinking in my brain. But that’s neither here nor there. I gather.

And where I was heading with all that is my liquid diet started after the extraction of two teeth from my mouth last week by an older gentleman dressed all in blues – hospital blues – with a white mask the kind surgical doctors wear so as not to smell in my breath apparently, or any little rambunctious little germ that might pop from my opened flesh unto their tongues. Liquid diet in the sense that it isn’t a solid diet, as in the food could be drank and is more often than not taken-in in such a manner, though without a straw because I do not like straws at all, just like I don’t like ice cream in a cone either. I like ice cream in a little dish accompanied by a little spoon.

Coffee in the morning. Grapefruit + an apple cored and skinned + some orange juice in the grinding machine which makes slushy-like drinks. Chocolate milk as a midmorning snack. Possibly – and I realize there’s a flaw, a dent in the flow of all this liquid, chunky or juicy or simply watery – possibly a yogurt and an avocado for lunch. I just LUUUUVE avocados. And then there’s that all too watery liquid-like of all liquid-like substances I’ve often worked very had at staying away from – a difficult and impossible task as in our bodies are what? 90 percent? Forgot the numbers exactly but it’s up there and I didn’t even know them in junior-high biology class, but the frog got the needle right in their guts, that they did – WATER. At least one liter in the morning and one liter in the afternoon, which makes two liters throughout the day. Very Liquid, indeed, this diet, mate. Dude, this water is too darn cold! I don’t like it icy! Chills my balls frozen COLD and goes down my plumbing like gurgling rocks or ice cubes tumbling down my pipes towards the bottom of my stomach. Don’t you freeze my water, man! Not warm neither. NO. Nether. World. But just right, you know what I mean?

Then there’s the evening when I get home, and the liquid diet gets INnnersting. You cin say that agin. Yes, Sir. At night at home longing for the narrative I even drink it at night at home simple. I’ll go for a little solid crispy salad with some cubed tomatoes for example, and some yellow squash – not cooked but of course who ever talked about cooking and fires and flames and boiling water ANYHOOOOO? (as I did last night, meaning the crudités choiced up in a salad bowl) With some zucchini sliced raw still like the rest. A few tiny cubes a white sour cheese, loads and loads of onions, and splash fulls of olive oil plentiful colorful eventful. I.

My dog loves all this too.

The liquid diet continues: Red or White WINE ad infinitum for the evening throughout the evening until the sun falls out of view into the next hemisphere and long after when you’re about to go to bed and you falter from step to wall entwining yourself in the telephone cord.

What happened to the narrative? Tend to loose the thread is what I tend to do, forgot even to talk even about my hero the character leading the storyline other than myself nibbling myself, needle watching, navel marveling of the EGO talking about myself non-stop. This is boring the narrative to sleep. Pancho is the hero.

(Background check: A wannabe Gargantua from trailer park Tex-Mex country who works in a taquerilla and LOVES food and LOVES to eat.)

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

00h15 


Was far gone
red like a serene bridesmaid
in a pink dress
with so many hours
yet
in a pink dress.

But they caught
the leopard
trying to out-wit them
and to out-double-think them
from behind his counter
he would NEVER
know.

They kept saying and saying and saying
till he had rotated on himself
that tomatoes were good
specially the homegrown ones.

Getigoing all excited up.

At least
One Dozen Times
and begged
for forgiveness.

For what?

(He forgot
half dressed
in a pink dress.)

00h12 


I will steep
the bottles
in hot water.

This way
the labels
will come right off.

That’s what I’ll do.

SPIT 


It’s not fair
playground monkey bars in winter
or spitting
the farthest

                             ITS

a game
I learnt once from under the porch.

You spat the farthest
and from where your spit
landed
you stood
and shot the ball.

The trick of the game
was to spit
the closest to the basketball net

                             HONORING

natural spitting abilities.

11h59 


Midnight has just about rung
let this be my song
though I know none of it matters none.

5 


It’s a phrase
like any other phrase
built on a premise
from some idea
thought about
probably
for not much
more than a second.

It’s a phrase
repeated throughout
the piece
built to uncover the idea
thought about earlier
and repeated endlessly
forever on
changing a word here
a letter there
a tense some of the time
and probably
just a coma.

It’s a phrase
a phase
a place to gaze
and forget
through repetition
and the mantra
will put you to sleep
or in a daze
thinking
about nothing much more
not even
a simple phrase
uncovered.

It’s a phrase
with an original meaning
lost
transliterated into a jumble
of sounds
repeated endlessly
to forget the words
and crunch them up teethless
into music
through repetition.

4 


(Impromptu scribbling is what I’m after tonight and most of the time, you understand... none of this is me but me raw with all my stupid cells coming right through clear and neon orange purple bright for all to see... improvising’s never been my game.)

3 


I better tell you this
vinegar
on the battle ship
will weaken your men.

2 


God forbid
my crib’s been filled
jizz.

1 


Don’t know
how to express this
all together
NO.

It’s like a crumpled
secret written
in a foreign language
in a foreign alphabet
in invisible
ink
you uncovered.

Saturday, March 19, 2005

GARDENING THE BIG GARDEN 


Before going in to work
at the liquor store
what a bore
elephants come in daily
for their cheap bottle of whisky
or bellow ten dollar
vodka half gallon
of a plastic jug
what a mug you plug
dung bat half bit off the steps into
their graves
dug just short of three feet
deep
not enough to keep the vermin out
that’s the point
buster
that’s the way we dig
the dirt
and plant the garden
rotten with your dirty rotten
corpse
imbibed with cheap booze.

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

NEVER WOULD HAVE THOUGHT 


The French language is the third most spoken language in the U.S. of A.!!
Check it out: The Report (PDF).
More fun stuff here.

(Link found via ni.vu.ni.connu.)

The statistics for Texas shows that French is merely the 6th language spoken in the Lone Star State. Should have moved to Maine – when I was still in Paris, the two places I was debating over were Portland, Maine, and Austin, Texas... I chose, for better or for worst, the latter. In Maine, French is the SECOND most spoken language in the State. And not only that, Maine has the highest percentage of French speakers in the United States.

Oh well, Texas will have to do for the time being. Austin is a good place to be, after all.

PS: 1,606,790 French speakers in the United States.

Sunday, March 13, 2005

22h07 


It’s sleepy nighty night sleepy time
baby
come to beddy pops.

OKAY

It’s nighty night honey pups
come
come to beddy pops.

OKAY

It’s early yet
cheek bone growing tender
after midnight
got two hours almost
left to thee.

OKAY

Beddy pups
sleepy time
puppy snores
pops.

OKAY

(mate)

(WhadontYA giveME no
whiskyBABY instead?)

21h55 


It’s all in the circle
they say
they saw
they did
they told on YA.

Just joking
kiddo
don’t take it bad
pumpkin
it’s all in the role
it’s all in the numbers
that appear
face up
black on white
whether you get it
or not
they say
they saw
they did
they looked on YA.

Have a drink
buddy
cut your toe nails
mister
it’s all in a day’s work
that’s it’s all decided
whether or not
you get to play
they say
they told me so
I know it’s not...

Fair what’s fair who says nothing about
FAIR
YA.

21h46 


Take some wheat flour
from the fridge
where I keep it
locked behind doors
and then there’s some chicken liver
you role around
in it.

Flour sticking
to the brown slimy organ
playing church like
music with Amens
big ones
and Alleluias
bigger ones
coated in wheat flour
on the brown blood.

Fry’em up in the deep pan
hot frizzles
looking good and golden.

Po’boy liver
sanDWHICH
tomato slices
and SPINach
in the bun
with just a tad of black pepper
and a little
salt.

My pillar gentle fried and soft
with a hard golden edge.

17h55 


Hold my hand
cause I saw the circle passing over me
like rock salt
covering me sucking it all out of me
the liquid I know suck
sucking suck suck
cluck
the salt did it to me
taking it all out
drying the whole mess to a rag
dish rag
dried outside all hard
on the wooden fence.

17h49 


Long the way I sat on a railroad track
just a few feet from home
thee I saw reflecting
sitting crouching your big behind
not far from home
thee I saw calculating
long the way is where I found the track
steel good steel rusted strong metal
steel not far the train
passing slowly honking its big fat horn
not far from home.

17h43 


There’s a thought
in a circle
of little purple flowers
growing out of a strawberry
clay pot
that’s a thought
of three green strawberries
and one white flower
soon to be a berry
sprouting out of
dare we say
nothing so’s I can tell
‘sept some water
falling from the hose I held
there
like a thought waiting to happen
but falling anyways
into the strawberries
waiting to happen.

17h35 


Chamomile in the garden
St. John’s Wort’s there too
Oregano the flat kind
carpet like
as well as the Italian kind
bushy like
and a whole mess of chives.

(Among other sweet tingly greens
and colors some purple
and a little yellow
with the red bell-like flowers
that hummingbirds like
they say.)

That’s my garden
that’s my green little hide-a-way
on a dry spot of dry mud
when the sun
bright ball of eye shadow
behind the budding pecan
tree
shines thee to me.

Am grateful.

17h28 


Holding my breath
complete with red
I eyed the sun straight in the balls
gone like a fly
on a dry turd
complete with red
and some stale bread.

17h24 


The depressed few
strain with thee a little circle
the judge is gone
clocked out by the courthouse
turned a corner
and disappeared a few
circles depressed.

Shower under the fall
of water
turned to salt I
sit there wondering
scrapping my head with floral
shampoo
compressed into my scalp
scrap this
throw it away in a circle
in the sky over the falling
water.

Wednesday, March 09, 2005

GREEN THUMB 3 


Invigoration
via planting
and digging good dirt
at the bottom of the compost
where it’s really thick
and dark
and sticky
you put your hands in there
and smell earth
with worms
and decomposed vegies
you almost want
to try and eat it
it’s so wholesome and dense
steaming
like horse manure.

GREEN THUMB 2 


A day off
didn’t have to go to work
played in the yard
gardening
planting hope
and a little good humor
for later.

GREEN THUMB 


Took it easy today. My mom came to visit late morning, and we went on a walk around my neighborhood with Brutus. She pointed out a lot of the trees and plants to me. She’s much better at it than I am. Then we came back to my place and ate a little lunch. Avocado, mixed salad with a “filet” of olive oil, and some tahini to spread on a couple slices of bread. After she left, I went to the bank to pay a couple of bills, then I headed to what’s becoming my favorite shop in Austin, Howard Nursery.

I walked around and took in the smells, looked at the flowers, dreamt about having one of each of those fruit trees, and left with lots of new beautiful plants. My favorite being a small fig tree. I asked the boss guy about it.

“My mom’s had a few fig trees that she’s planted at her place and non of them have taken. What’s the matter?”
“The matter is that most people get them wrong. Don’t water them till they’re bone dry, that’s the trick, and that’s where most people go wrong, they just want to water them all the time, and that kills them.”
“So what do I do? Can I transfer it from this pot it’s in now to a bigger pot?”
“Sure, no problem. Water it one good time, then don’t ever water it again until it’s bone dry, and it looks like there isn’t any water left in that pot anywhere you can see. BONE DRY is the key here.”

Well... the boss man isn’t nearly as talkative as that, but that’s what he said with half the words and some body language added. He’s a no-bullshit man, and that store is definitely one of my top places in my neighborhood.

Sunday, March 06, 2005

THE BRIGHT YELLOW HOUSE 


Still wet outside. Rained all night and all of yesterday. No way to do any gardening. Another wet Sunday. Took Brutus on a long walk around the neighborhood. A few houses down from where I live, there’s a small bright yellow wooden house. It’s been on sale for more than one year. The people who bought it a couple years back, completely rebuilt it, painted it, and put up a little white picket fence around part of the front yard. This white picket fence had absolutely no utilitarian value. Three or so months ago, the house was finally sold to a young urbanite couple. They drive a small SUV. The new owners took the white picket fence down, and put up a little flower garden instead in the space between their front yard and the street. There is no sidewalk. Most places in Austin have no sidewalk. It’s fine when we’re in a little quiet neighborhood and walking on the street doesn’t put your life in danger, but when the back-alley dead-ends on 45th street for example, and I’m walking my dog, I have nowhere to go but to turn around, because 45th street is a main thoroughfare, and walking along that street without a sidewalk would be putting my life in grave danger. But I’m getting off the subject. Across from the little yellow house there is the railroad track going parallel with our common street. On this side of the railroad track, there is a ten foot wide lawn which goes along the track from 51st street to 46th street, unbroken, long green mostly unkempt lawn. It’s a great place to walk your dog. Everybody in the neighborhood does it. Dog doodoo all over the place, but somehow it doesn’t smell bad. When it’s wet, as it’s been for the last several weeks, the place is so full of grass, mud, debris, that it all turns itself around. When it’s hot and dry like it gets, it all dries so quick, you’d think all the neighborhood dogs were shitting bricks. This lawn is straight, large, and very easy for the railroad to take care of. All they have to do is pull an industrial lawnmower with a large tractor. Then another tractor comes in and makes big piles of leaves, grass, and whatever. Then a dump truck comes by, the tractor fills the dump truck, the dump truck and the tractor leave, and all is done in barely one day. The little yellow house stands approximately halfway between 51st street and 46th street, right at the mid-section of the lawn, about the point where the tractor usually piles the debris for the dump truck to pick up. Last weekend, when I was walking my dog, I saw the new owners taking care of their new flower bed. The man and the woman were having an animated discussion. I looked at them as I was walking Brutus, but didn’t try to listen in – I was too far anyway, and my hearing isn’t that good – but I observed them for the time it took for me to slowly walk along the tracks with Brutus. Finally, the woman got into her SUV and drove off. They didn’t put out angry vibes at all, but excited ones, the ones following the debating over something and then the excitement following directly the taking of a new decision, which they both apparently agreed on. I put it out of my mind and kept walking all the way to almost 51st street, at which point I usually take Red River and go for a walk in the neighborhood. By this time, Brutus, if he needs to, has all ready taken care of his poopoo needs, and I don’t have to worry about him using somebody’s clean lawn for his business, so I feel safe to go walking through the neighborhood. But as I turned around, I saw the man with a shovel under the drizzle digging a hole in the railroad track lawn! I stood there looking at him from afar, wondering what the hell he was doing. Instead of taking Red River, I decided to go back along the track. He was digging a large hole. It was wet last weekend, as it is this weekend, so the digging wasn’t too difficult. I though about it, and I thought about my backyard, how almost all the grass has been stomped and destroyed by the dogs, how it would be nice to have a lawn, and I figured he was taking tuffs of railroad track grass to plant in his backyard to get some good green going. The railroad track lawn being one of the few lawns with such thick grass, they must be using a good strain which grows well around here. What a great idea, I thought to myself. This guy’s not too stupid. I thought I had understood, and walked home asking myself whether it was legal or not to take – steal? – grass from the railroad company. If I decided to take on this grass replanting activity, should I do it in the dark around midnight so that nobody would see me? But if I did that, if a cop drove by, which they often do to avoid the Airport boulevard traffic, if they’re in hurry, would he stop and flash a big old flash light in my face, and pointing a gun at me thinking I was burying some sort of sinister evidence? These thoughts occupied me for the rest of the day, and I never came to a conclusion, thus I forgot about it until this morning when I was walking Brutus along the same path. In those holes, three of them all together, the new owners of the bright yellow house planted three trees, one in each hole. The trees are placed strategically in a triangle between the street and the railroad track. The triangle is so placed that it is impossible for even a small tractor to get around them. Now, this is a sort of conundrum. I like the trees, or at least the idea and spirit behind the planting of those trees, but I also like my long plush lawn taken care of at no cost to me by the railroad company. The planting of those trees is going to make their job very difficult. Will they simply run their tractors over the trees the next time they come? Will the railroad company sue the owners of the bright yellow house? Did the owners of the yellow house do this to spite the railroad company? Did they do it with the hope that the trees will grow and eventually hide the track and Airport boulevard – runs parallel to the tracks right on the other side – from their front room view? What were their reason? Selfish? Naive or misplaced environmentalist reasons? To spite the railroad company? Did they think this through?

Friday, March 04, 2005

NOTHING MUCH IN THE FRIDGE 


Got me two large slabs of bread
in the toaster oven.
Found some loose bacon
and placed them side by side in my cast iron pan.
Cut the avocado in half.
A third of a Philadelphia cream cheese pack
has been left on my counter
by myself
for the last few days.

(after a while)

Turned the bread then took it out.
Spread the bread with cream cheese.
Drained the bacon of its extra fat with paper towels.
Added it on top of the cheese.
Sliced half an avocado on top of that.
Uncorked my last bottle of cheap white wine.

Food.

FROZEN PEANUTS 


Trying to burn some peanuts
they’ve been stuck in the freezer for weeks
and they’re not that good
no more
they burn a bit going down
like right at the throat
on top in the back
a little taste of charcoal
remains.

Frozen peanuts
for the gentleman sitting in that chair
over there.

Frozen peanuts
for the dog sleeping on the orange couch
in the living room.

Frozen peanuts
for the lady singing on the radio
in echoed bloom.

Frozen peanuts
for all the crazy people walking on the streets
of the city.

Frozen peanuts burning down my throat
in the city after dark
and all is quiet
even the neighbor’s dogs...

Amazing.

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