chchchchch

this time they're not my own boxes
and the boxes do not contain my things
i am just a peripheral to this exodus
the beetle who bears the bones westward -ho
my back is strong and will not let your
books fall down, let me take your body on
my shoulders, let's confront
this change together
let us winnow at the old statues we made
of each other

get to know a vegetable

Hello, some kind of asian radish. I grew you from a seed, and don't think you are fully grown yet, but as big as twice the thickness of my thumb. Sliced open you look like purple-y raw ham. I didn't know what to do with you so I sauteed you in butter with onions that grew a few rows down. And then fried two eggs the chickens laid today on top. You kind of kick ass, burning and spicy and crisp when raw and maintaining that crispness though losing most of the heat when lightly cooked. You have both simplicity and textural possibility; I am looking forward to mashing you in some way in the future.

I love you,

Sarah

i.v.

misinformation

It wasn't two days til payday, it was actually five days til payday.

I'm mostly too anxious to eat though feeling really loaded with problems until I distract myself briefly on the internet.

Thank you for listening, internet.

Update: There is something magical and rare for me about when a proper boozing hour rolls around and you've been basically immobile all day though man. Makes my collar feel blue, this luxury of a day wasted. I think I am going to walk two blocks to Guerrero Mart and buy a cherry cola from the machine out front.

two days til payday

It's unfortunate when the cause of your up-all-night stomach illness could possibly have been one of three of the five ingredients in the three-days-til-payday scrounged meal. I generally consider my inner acids capable of at least trouncing some stray bacteria as my black coffee and hot sauce intake have, in my imagination, produced within me a bile which, if I could spray it from my mandibles like a giant radioactive ant, would melt walls and furniture like a knife through carrot cake.
Last night I was siiiick. Today I am better, fine, I am fine. But not knowing which of the ingredients, exactly, has put me in a tricky situation of deciding which of them I can safely consume for the next two days. There is a dubious onion. There is an untrustworthy potato. There is shifty-eyed cheddar. Etc.

m t

For the past month or so I've started a number of entries for this here thing.  I start typing on some idea then, inevitably, my interest wanders away or I assess whatever I've written to be of embarrassingly little interest to anyone and I close the browser window.  

I guess I guess I want to share with my friends and not my enemies, the latter of which are defined as anyone who wishes me harm and the former as everyone else.  This is not paranoia or an inflation of self-importance.  There's a lot of why, why not, why, why not, why, why not in regards to writing continually about oneself.  I've recently concluded that it's kind of become what I "do" with writing though, more-so than poetry even; small vignettes of things I think, or things that happen to me, colored to amuse.  I have found examples of success in similar genres, like DF Wallace; he knows more complicated words than I do.  I am not on this level and know I probably never will be.  Anyway.  This style feels uncomfortably of narcissism.  Aside but not-Aside: Last night I was on my guest bed in the dark guest bedroom in the lightning and hail storm, ill-obsessed with the idea of what it's like to kiss me, the person, and hold me, and love me.  What I know of my face I assume is a carefully staged series of expressions tailored specially for mirrors and photographs.  You know this, I know this, I'm just saying I wish I had some kind of hovering playback camera to show me how I'm seen; what I feel like.  This is brought on by being baffled at the motives of others.  I'm getting too deep in here.  Writing about things that I experienced is like that delayed playback, for others, from within my head.  

I could not eventually envision making out with myself.  I would get close, but the barrier between my self and Myself remained thick and sinuous.   

Always I feel I am missing some sort of larger trend in my selfness.  Here I am here I am here I ammmmmm.  I've probably written something very much like this before.  I feel frequently empty of newness, just a slow, turning, shell-less cephalopod in the ocean deep, worried with its own minor troubles.