Beef stroganoff in the fridge. A prickly pear. I’m eating. The light goes on and off and I reheat my leftovers. I know there is no nutritional value to a hot meal these days. Could I advance to the warm oven in this arctic cold front? To the sizzling stove.
A breeze brushes my shoulder where I left the kitchen towel, hung limply waiting for a damp spot on the counter. In a rush I realize the finality to dinner. To an evening of sitcoms and comatose advertising. Wrenching digitally away.
The crisper door slides noisily. Another meal to prepare. This one cold and old and boring. Infusing potato chips into a turkey sandwhich, I relieve for a little while my carbon footprint. Releasing just the slightest pressure on the neck of mother earth. She barely even notices me anymore.
She hasn’t really even fed me since I was weened. And even then the drugs seeped into the circular and squarish bosoms I drank from. Now I inject them into myself willfully. Pursuing the next deep winter breath. I couldn’t even cough up the flem without these new drugs, I think.
I couldn’t even swallow.
-much love to you all : )
-ghost
P.S. Stay hungry.
Tags: cardboard, crisper drawer, cure, flem, freezer burn, new drugs, plastic bags, swallow, winter
January 28, 2009 at 12:20 pm |
Is this about your mom not leaving you food when she went to florida or something? j.k.
January 28, 2009 at 5:01 pm |
no, maybe.
It may sound like that on the surface, but that’s not really what it is about. : )
January 29, 2009 at 2:02 pm |
I didn’t really think that was what it was about, but superficially it connected to that pretty well