world of beans

if you could swallow pigment would you try? would you opt to glean any calories from slick, cold, tubes of chemical possibility?

maybe happiness has been in

paint cans and tubes and bottles and this whole time we’ve been too fool to go and look

for any of it?

And why didn’t any of the happy look to come live in me?

And would you miss the heavy slew of meat and potatoes and onion cooked for you weekly by women who you expect to cook, forever? Could you happily replace food's weight with the esculent slither of pigment into the gracious film of the inside of your cheeks?

If perhaps, it did not stain your intestines and things, your important inside parts, to be fair...i would eat paint for freedom.

I would eat chalk, gravel, coal dust, tar...I would digest the stopple of the oldest bottle of wine

on this earth, and not take a sip for myself, for a fate such as that;

trust that I would

for freedom.

And in truth, as we read these words I am digesting the liquor at the bottom of this pot of beans we call a globe. i am an epicure with a taste for challenges.

I gnawed on Twitter only 16 minutes this morning before coming across a gristle made of rotted space. And inside me it sits, waiting on my boast of a declaration to come to pass.

"And why didn’t any of the happy look to come live in me?"

Written August 24, 2020