I have eaten strange things since I
was twelve: the memories of life—the serenity of sorrow—frog legs, kites upon
winds as they carry my pride. I have eaten mourning—teal-hazel concerns—reality
blends with unreality. (Shifts in brains, the eloquence of pain, soft crystals
alarming systems.) Those strange things … oysters in misery sauce; just so
swift it destroys; sunlight blues, those first few breaths, eating the
strangeness of sounds.
I have eaten serenity, its melodic
jazz, inconsistent lines, upon blues, into auras, jingling into cabinets—those
words like confetti, drawers of expression, deeper ecstatic dungeons; as
strange creatures, bronzed in trials, cooked partway, partly raw; to eat life,
as rising specimens.
I become the stranger. I eat
strange islands. I have eaten strange things. (By purpose to sing. By regret to
forfeit.)
These strange items … stranger
occurrences … to eat existence, to eat skies … much is time activity.
