There is fire under my kettle
and people
people,
(peapole)
keep intigrating themsleves.
Food. Hot Food.
It’s no longer Easter and I seem to have forgotten how to write: that sounded good. I am drunk, more so than I imagined, and am surprised at the fluidity of my former mind. It is funny how minds elapse into detritus—and how quickly. I am sure McDowell would have a hay-day with that sentence. However he’s not been inhabiting my dreams for months, so I'd better leave that English teacher alone.
That is where the crux of existence lays, like a chicken, between morning and afternoon, misspelled and forgotten beyond omelets and ham—which is not kosher, though I am not, nor have ever been, Jewish.
Like the cow dripping from my back in pride: a vintage wearing über vegetarian (my parents raised me that way, I have never tasted {only smelled} bacon. I wear leather and wash my hands of this discussion.
