the suggested tears i borrow from the pig on my plate

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. 

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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