I dislike writing that deals with food. Generally the food in my cupboards is an embarrassment but I like it more than reading about apple pies and chocolate cakes made with love, care, consideration, crumbling from your fork, sizzling from the cherries and crap.
The fat grandma smiles of Jim Gaffigan warmed by children. I don’t want to hear about the beach either unless the conversation revolves around it being hot enough for you to kill a Muslim. And don’t tell me about your pain. If it’s there, it’s there. The fact that I talk about mine embarrasses me. I’m sick of it. I’m trying to write it away. It’s the red blood streaming from my limb after a gunfight. It’s a prayer for God to heal me.
I’m looking more or less for the source of the fire engine encircling my window from the point where your and my sentences are intertwining and the ringing buzzer takes the form of a coffee shop call I can’t ignore. Some point where we stop talking about how it was the drug did this and made me see this and the dream was this and this but rather that lucidity gets mixed into the recipe and we’re tapping against crumbling church walls after higher bosses have banged the bricks.
Secrets in the floor, the ceiling. Doors beyond doors. Tears that seep the pain from my crook neck like a wet stone sponged. Migraine blasts of faults leaving Muslim lives retaliated in the courtroom. Other sides of the story. I’m scared. Especially regarding that time I said nigger in the grave yard, trying to rumble the grail poison in my gut.