A Freshened Palate, Perspective, and Purpose

Ingredients:

1 potato, 1 egg, half an onion, 1 clove of garlic
salt and pepper to taste
Light frying oil, 2 slices of bacon,
A fistful of poor self image
I mean, spinach
Balsamic vinegar, applesauce,
A dash of self-hate, and left over unwanted thoughts
Note: for a healthier alternative, forget the self-hate
Also note: Can’t remove unwanted thoughts

Step-by-step instructions:
1. Trim potato of any bad areas
    No matter how badly you’d want to trim
    Yourself
    Wash and scrub away any dirt or sand
2. Grate potato,
    Not knuckles
    Squeeze gratings with an old
    T-shirt or throwaway towel
    You could use the shirt you’re wearing
    But you’d end up wearing your stains
    Which, honestly,
    You do anyway
3. Grate onion, cry
4. Finely chop garlic
    Don’t think about the bad breath
5. Put potato, onion, garlic, and 1 egg (without shell)
    Into the bowl and
    Mix
    But not like mixing drinks with anxiety med
    And bad coping mechanisms.
6. Heat oil until shimmery
    Fry potato mixture to make 2 or 3
    Golden brown, delicious latkes
7. Fry bacon while latkes are in pan
    Fry two slices so the bacon doesn’t
    Have to be
    Alone or
    Isolated
    Set aside on paper towel to soak up the grease
8. Boil water to poach eggs.
    Once boiling,
    Swirl water into a whirlpool
    Exactly like the thoughts scalding
    The insides of my skull
    For example:
    Do you know what it’s like to
    Hate yourself? To not stop the
    Unbelief that you are any
    Good at all?
    Understanding that you’re
    Unemployed
    Unskilled
    Unwanted
Gently crack two eggs into whirlpool
    Understanding that you can’t simply
    “Get over this”
    Like standing under burdens
    And whiskey bourbon hits
    Expectations - faraway dreams
    Only furthering it
    Like you’ll never be able to accomplish them
    You’ll surmount them but run
    Out of oxygen because
    You’re not
    Supposed to be there
    In the first place
(don’t worry, the whirlpool will prevent eggs from
breaking)
    (Don’t you see what
    Everybody else is doing
    And you act like you
    Know what you yourself
    Is doing
    Don’t you see all your
    Truly selfish doings
    Who do you think you are?
    -laughing- you’re bad
    Where do you think
TURN OFF THE HEAT AND COVER
    Set timer for exactly 5 minutes.
    Do not
    Lift the cover until time is
    Up.
    After 5 minutes, scoop eggs out with slotted spoon and set on paper towel to dry.
    Let eggs
    *Rest.
    Be careful,
    The yolks
    Are very fragile at this point.

Assemble the dish
Spread applesauce on potato latkes. Be careful
Not to spread so thin.
Don’t be stingy,
take what You need.
Put bacon on top, stack poached eggs on top of the bacon.
Garnish plate with spinach, sprinkle with balsamic vinegar.
Each thing has its place, even if it seems too complex or complicated.

Flavor Profile;
Latkes are light and
Fluffy and crispy.
Onions, garlic give a basic, yet
Flavorful foundation.
The egg yolks spill a very rich, deep syrupiness that is brought out by the salty, fatty bacon.
The applesauce is special because the sweetness and **** contrasts with the smooth richness of egg, potato and bacon.

And just like life, balances the heavy with the light
          Work with play
       Teaching with learning
                               Spending money with saving money
       Learning things and saying things
       Being there with being here

And sometimes, amidst all of that
You need something to add
a little fresh,
A little color
A little bit of
Different.
That’s where the Spinach comes in
Some
Justified bitterness to
Freshen your
Palate, perspective, and purpose.

With each bite and each taste
You’re reminded that each blend of flavors
Each collision of textures
Are compositions of each ingredients and
each step:
    The onions, the salt, the applesauce
Slicing, chopping, grating
Frying, failing, hating
Boiling, swirling, burning
Accidents, bad luck
Tripping over, getting up
Panicking, breathing, saying “enough”

And having an end product
Like this
Is
Purpose
It is how it’s supposed to be
You are who you’re supposed to be

When you’re finished, wipe your hands
Wash your plate
Realize you have dishes to do
And more courses
More tastes
To produce

*So that you will never go hungry
With this Circadian Appetite

They say “life happens”
and it turns out, death waits.
I am like a bull
charging into his flourish
The matador, opposite of my emotion
I am lucky, for he is patient

It takes two to tango but
it’s just you in this
this dance with death
and as you slip away, into it
charging becomes
running
becomes running to
becomes running from
and in the end, it’s all just
running

This bullfight is anything but
a dichotomy
escapades are laced with
fear and aggression
impulses are masked by
roars of the crowd.
To them you’re not you, just who they think
they wouldn’t know emotions you don’t even know yourself

It is a fear.
Calves are trained to hate humans
conditioned and cultivated in fear
fight becomes flight
it is a game.

Run free in this coliseum
chase what is the end and what defines the beginning

yesterday    I woke up late
                     forgot to shower
                     skipped a class
                     couldn't relate
yesterday    was complacent
                             cold
                             quaint
yesterday    changed as the leaves do
                     my heart matched the trees
                     red when it fell
                     on my sleeve for you
                               I saw       yesterday     today
                 Nobody feels       yesterday     like you do
       Everyone listens to       yesterday     speak, sigh, cry
          But forgets about       yesterday     who what why
         Sometimes today is my      yesterday
                              I am scared of
                    can't run away from
                                                         yesterday

The Middleman is at the start
with a fistfull of pockets.
He walks more than he talks it, with
empty hands.
Orange Peel knuckles; peeling, showing
A segmented truth. He mocks it.
   Wholly revealing hisself with
waterbottle lungs,
   Breathing, squeezing; knuckles popping
   cracking, rabble-rousing-
The
Jenga game of a rib cage -
   - sounding skeleton and shouting -
As the beating heart un-falls apart
Unprotected, Uncontained.

By what unscrutability
can a pure heart be blood-stained?
   As his vain-ed cadence flows below the stone
The stone; a frame, posed.
Humble, yet reigns.

Like, the middleman comes to the end and
By God! Someone's killed the messenger, By God!
   Inadvertent
   Changing channels, all this
   static passive
   staging Battles
   A rib cage match like unintended, homicidal rattles
      As spinal shivers, the Middleman Delivers.

Initially
        he thought to
        bring sight to the Blind
                       Desiring OsIris or
                       Evoke E(see)kiel
        
        But he looked in a mirror
               and couldn't see
                                      his self
         His mirror
         betrayed him
         transparent, anti-Narcissus
         he was

         Now
         he feels he has
         too              much
                    V  i  s  i  o  N
                                            his (soughts) self(s)
                     go in one             (thoughts)
                        eye and             (oughts)
                               out
                               the other
he, So Self-Aware, scares his mirror
                               wHEre
                               Who
                              (did) you see            then
                               Do                             now
                                                                 becoming
                                                                 tomorrow . . . ?

A heart like yours
    made of pure gold
I'm captivated by yours
    heart, mind, and soul

Eyes more bright than diamonds
         through them
             the dreams, memories
                  a lingering silence
A single glance, that catches the horizon
          No words to explain
               like the moon rising
                   despite the sunset's defiance
                        a masterpiece
I jump, I melt, I burst // I felt
I shout
              and dive headfirst

What's North to South?
What's you to me?
    Treasure, closely kept, to mine.

I spent some time in the Clouds today: turns out
we're not that different.
I realized
my mind is
inhabited by Cirrus and Cumulonimbus.
As a result,
this week's forecast is brought to you by
The Hypothalamus.

I rain in tears,
spring showers and
summer storms in
Unintelligible mutterings
                         sputterings, spit and
Outbursts  of  stutterings.
It's pea soup when I'm P-d off.
Ominously overcast until I'm over it.
Thoughts condense inside;
my skull sweats
until my thoughts are no longer as dense
until it all makes sense.

My head's in the Clouds or
the clouds are in my head.
Thoughts drift off like imagination vapors
on a Sunday afternoon.
I'm captured by these Attention span capers
like the sun captivates the moon.

I'm waiting on clear skies;
my brain's barometoer breaks
       under AtmosFearic pressure.
But the greatest beauty is glimpsed
as the sun's set reflects upon cumuliform
                       - Breathless -
Each gleam an unreplicable clash  
of time, light, and wonder
That a cloudy disposition
     would only discover.

I'm a mime stuck in time
you can only hear my hands
and I can talk all I want
But when my mind is sick
I need a Horologist.

Like my fumbling fingers fail to
pick the tick out my mind
   Infecting my thoughts and
   ******* my time

Seems like the sun's
always setting on my dial
As it waxes and wanes -
I haven't seen the man's face
                 in a while

Look up for reflection
but only see Khronic-Introspection

Solar Apathy
like a slow sunset
my brain's in my head
sometimes I forget

Because these thoughts
are comin' from my chest
when I feel undercast
it's Cardiac Arrest

And I'm glaring at the sky
in Lunar Protest
'dont' understand why
but it's what I know best

Ask me
   From midnight to noon
why apathy's
   Got me like cycles of the moon

And when I see your eyes
it's my heart's sunrise
and my brain can breathe
and my heart knows why

They way I miss you's
how the sun knows the moon
Is this solar apathy
the way it has to be?

Oh, the night's terrible beauty
   and each look in your eyes
puts my heart in my head
   and my brain in the sky

I heard there's a cafe
whose only patrons are hungry poets.
You can grab your favorite latte
and dream dreams that can only be
Imagination.
Sculpt in the sky and revel in its beauty
Clouds become construction blocks
take it all in
and call it living.

Practice Pen Strokes and go swimming in words, like
real current events and conversation.

The paint of your tongue,
what EXCELLENT Palette.
Don't you see
We speak in
Masterpieces.

Not so far fetched, real
images that add color to our breath.