A good friend with a basset-hound face is on his feet The rest of us are weak as newborn puppies, from the late hour, the numbing glory in our lungs But, mostly from laughter.
This young man is a connoisseur of altered states, an apprentice butcher, and one of the chosen few who breath music in and out effortlessly And he's preaching Prosthelytizing
Three minutes before, he had been happily day dreaming Three feet from the floor with the ****-tube beaming happy simple moving colors
The man on the set shows us how to stir-fry chicken Our mouths water, but we're content to sit.
But with the fire coming up that glass pipe and setting his boiler to churn along feverish He caught an insight or it snared him, like a spiderweb across a peaceful hiking path
On his feet He was beginning to see connections And had to share them with someone Now
I'm a limp doll at this point, fully immersed in the body-high Thoughts are glacial, movement glacial
Oh, my friend. You're talking to the wrong audience We can't hope to see it as you do.
But he keeps on keeping on. And tells us a thing or two.
Cooking He says Is like ***.
As our laughter dies down to a dull roar, he continues
The speeds and heats and intensities can all vary to give you countless subtle differences. But the true constant is care Loving attention to the finest detail.
His brows furrow, his toes test the fibers of the rug and he glances back up, and I imagine a podium in front of him.
Or maybe it's like Jazz. He says. We learn, or glean out, how things are supposed to happen But in the moment, the twanging instant Beautiful things will themselves to exist and they defy all well-laid plans.
And that's the point of all life isn't it? Eat well. Have great ***. Everything else is just another step towards that end.