Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Raw



In my disease I find

Nothing ever gave me this energy

Nothing ever was released like this.


She said others fed on it and I should too

That energy that was hidden in the deepest of pockets inside arteries

What never showed up in those thin blue veins of yours and of mine

From those pineapple slices that were processed and slumped and tumbled into tin cans

And those those those those monster cookies that really only represented peanut butter farms


Such you can find in these pockets.

Such you can find in my garbage now.



We stood in the fitting room and decided on translucency

Mine across my shoulder, yours across your chest.


When I was a real child, I stretched my arm out before the retractable mirror and hated it

I thought it was masculine, these veins of mine

I recall wondering what I had done to deserve the translucency

And I started hating

Hate for all the questions answered

Hate for all the words unknown

Hate for all inappropriate remarks in regards to those hateful questions and more hate dissolving in those very veins

Long apart from where they were supposed to be

They settled for long, for years, for tears but to my great non-chagrin

Never for fears


My veins are the most precious of organs

I love the blood as it spills, admire it for bottling my bottles

When the wound heals itself

And when the blue worms penetrate my winter-wrinkly hands in this terrific Pacific Sun.






Raw food?

Yes, no?

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