NEEDLING

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.)