Ken Cormier
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....................................the sick nutritious facts of strife

We take in (ingest) boxfuls of nutrient-packed pellets, soaked in milk, fed by own sullen exertions into hapless mouths. We chew and we chew and chew. We chew and chew and we chew and chew. We deliver brain gas packages through spinal cord to tailbone and we feel the full feast in our snap-on pant suits and we wait in faux-leather swivel kitchen chairs for a sign from heaven that it's time to finish chewing and to clean our mouths.

MOUTH: teeth set in gums, alveolar ridge extends back, traces through roof to uvula and twitching glottis, glistening in saliva bath, spasming musculature. Rinse it off!

And we clean our mouths methodically and deliberately and ploddingly and methodically and it's finished. Once and for all it's done. And we step out into the sun and air, and we wait for a sign from heaven.

But heaven's signs are lost on us. They lay themselves out, obvious enough, in elaborate skin-tickling arrangements. They shimmer and quiver and slap at us and scream at us in dreams. But we can't understand, because we've retreated into our own bodies and we've become afraid of that part of ourselves that extends into air and across land and up streams and through the branches of trees, and burns at the center of the sun and swallows the universe and feels eternity.

So we return to our faux-leather swivel chairs.

And we wait.
And we eat lunch.
And it's Saturday.