That’s What it Tastes Like

I was at a dance show recently and I saw a pointless race.

It was on purpose – that was the point.

The dancers’ breasts shook and their tunic tails blew hard behind them

like cream backflags as they chased after each others’ clothes.

That’s what women do, right?

If the fluid between my brain and my skull were a viscous pseudo-spherical surface area,

it would be spinning like a globe in an anti-gravitational experiment with a lot of anarcho-ventilation.

Oh make it stop make it stop make it stop on Earth.

Only the physical can ground me.

There’s a whole in the round,

a hole in the globe,

a drillbit in the brain.

Let it breathe; it’ll heal!

Slow, deep, irrepressible, real, and everyone can see like a followspot.

I saw a girl in the headlights with a blank stare

in the face of a vehicle in the middle of the night.

Upside-down V, she was caught in alcoholic vapidity

in North Crown Heights, almost even Bed-Stuy.

Her hair was down and she was scared to death of infantilization.

Poor platitude with tiny bits of her ventricles dripping down her upper lip,

she stumbled with great resolve in the direction home wasn’t.

The guy next to me in this restaurant just said to the girl he’s with,

“Most of our relationship was long distance,

which is I think part of why it worked,

cuz we’re both not really the ‘grab a person, keep ’em by yer side’ kind of person.

But it wasn’t healthy, you know? Taste this, it’s amazing.

It’s the cucumber.

Now, I don’t feel bad so much as I feel confused.

But she was really cool, she was like me. And she was really good-looking, really beautiful.

I guess I’m just not that friendly. But I think other people were jealous of the situation.”

The girl said words

muffled and comforting,

like she was listening or something.

The guy on the other side of me just said to the girl he’s with,

“These cultures that are closer to our roots, you know, the roots of humanity,

they have rites of passage. For both boys and girls. Well, they say

school is like that, but really it’s just to get you

to spend money you don’t have on knowledge you don’t need.

Then you get all these college grads running into the wall over and over, you know,

like some video game robot character?

Anyway, that’s what I think these tough races are for, or like,

Comic Con.

To show yourself you really can achieve something.”

The girl across from him agreed with everything he said

and asked him more questions about his interesting opinion.

I don’t think love is placing bites of food in each other’s mouths.

It has little to do with consuming,

or even consummation, or even consolation, or consolidation.

It’s not something worth even making art about—

there’s just no point

it’s futile

it’ll be wrong.

There’s no expressing it on purpose.

I can’t even tell you.

That would be like a foot in the ribs or swallowing the ocean by mistake,

when it’s supposed to be like

trembling from melting ice on my iliac crests in August.

I just wish it would drip down my neck and my lover’s neck after sex

and gather in replete puddles under our clavicles.

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