maybe the reflex to cry
when i am eating
is a defense
mechanism; the throat
constricting towards a choking,
spasming breath in the ragged
windpipes of my perfect musical
machine. this is to keep me
from overeating?
my addictions parsed
down to food and
emotion, the need
to cry while eating, a sign
of divinity—not God-like but
just perfect,
like my musical machine.
my grasp of semiotics is sparse,
though, and i am
prone to a banal form
of mysticism. to redress:
if i choke
while eating but not on food,
no, rather on
a round and flabby bubble of
emotion; if my addictions
are to parsley, i mean
are parsed, away from what
they once contained, and are
now perhaps sparse
in their voluminous capture
of Food, and, Emotion, then
when i eat, which is
an addiction, i also feel
emotion, an addiction. i used
to smoke weed and drink
alcohol until drunk,
now i sometimes want
to cry when i eat. maybe
it is duality that i find
enrapturing. i guess
we’ll call this part
two: to eat
is a fundamental Human
requirement. it is
overwhelming to be so
nakedly human, to
eat, to chew
as i am, animal, and
without the pretense of what
i want you to think
i am. i am not able
to chew with swagger,
i do not chew
with a masculine limp.
my jaw works
earnestly, as does
the heart. and while we can see
the heart on sleeves, yes,
or in the erotic jump
of a naked neck,
generally the heart
and its openness, is
hidden. but the chewing
jaw, even behind veil
of beard or culture or
religion, there is
no hiding it.
a woman last night asked me
if we were going to talk
or text. we were texting.
i was confused by her
question and felt relief
that it was time to work
my mouth around a toothbrush
and fold myself into a borrowed
bed. if there is a part
three i guess this is it. this is
the part for summation;
if i am lonely than i should want
to be around people. when i am around
people i prefer to be alone. if i am
overeating than to choke is to preference
life. if i am to cry
then it would appear that
my food is in need
of salting.
and once the throat is
done choking, and
the brief house is abandoned
temporarily, the postscript
arrives. walking away, up
the sidewalk’d hill and away,
the peak erupts into visibility. this
is a postscript so of course a time
for snow.
and a new coat of snow rides
the visible peak, so a shriek
hides just behind my teeth. if i
feel compelled to cry at occasional
meal, then i fight back another
use for the throat at the sight of
new snow on an aged peak;
were i to live a life free from fear,
i could salt my food appropriately,
and i could let the toddling remains
of my addictions scream until
my perfect musical machine
opens crimson and ventilated
and bleeding.
what comes after a postscript, is it
only the grave? i preference
fire anyway, out here on this cold
floating island. the ocean,
consumptive, surrounds me.
my father was reduced
to an ashen urn, we dumped him
in a salmon stream and let him
oil slick his way out into ocean.
this is to be consumed in two
ways, at least.
and if i am to consume then i better learn
how not to choke. i hesitate
to mention addiction as that is not
what this is about. i do not count
days of sobriety and i do not feel myself
sober. i think mental illness is a gift,
of a bend and lean, and feel myself
lucky for my ability to drift. if
this is about anything it is
about; how do we tell each other
we love? and how do we accept this
slow pressing weight? this planet
is a joyful place, and it moans with
the hollow heft of all these bones.
zakschafer.com 