How do they make the pastry so striated?
Why is a breadstick reminiscent of muscle?
I'm not sure when I learned the term 'gristle', I called it cartillidge.
In between my teeth.

There are some very hard lessons no fancy language can explain.
How and why you keep repeating homelessness. How and why you keep running in cycles away, closer, away, farther away. How and why you return to men. How and why you burn with anger trying to find couches and pianos that won't burn. How and why your mother your mother your mother kept repeating the same mistakes you will repeat, the same mistakes the same mistakes the same mistakes. And we got sick-lick.

Tongues are a measure of health. I'd like to have breasts.
White sludge = not good. May be a sign of thrush.
waves, and surfing bodies, so tan and bikinied. Sun-kissed hair I repeated with thirty volume developer, a perm, bleach, broken bonds to get blonde.
Big bang curls. Afro-centric hire.

Nails like wax. Dripping the red all over my hand on a church retreat, only thinking, GORE.
[NUR IS GOR OR GOD]
And holding it up to others like look how cool I bleed brothers.
Rolling play pretend cigarettes out of proclamations of God, Pslam to the Palm. Smoking G.O.D. Hey wanna get high on some G.O.D?
.OD. on G.O.D.?
Ha. A joke. Because you can't, because God is Infinite.
God is Love.
God is Infinite Jest.
Laughing at you... Brushing your back...

The wind sings to my skin, resonates with my specific vibrational tones.
It is more than metaphoric. It is prismic. It is spherical. It radiates. It glows. I see it. It shines with time entwined. I see it. I see lines crossing like feathers, strands of wind, ether, metaphor, blind judgment, and all marks on the high seas. Swashes of strokes into the water. Faltering. Falling. Enclosing water. Drowning, decomposing, molding, becoming stone.
Cycles as sick as the taste buds, as lick as the flower buds, as buzz as the bee bugs. Dancing. To the beat of their own direction. With arm to angle to sun to cloud.
Triangulate that shit. Ju-ju-ju-just triangulate that shit.
With arm to angle jungle cloud.

I can say with all honestly: My father grew up in a jungle. Now, I'm talking his formative years into early adulthood. Barbados. Little baby monkey pet maids and butlers. I see leaves on branches and dark beneath the shade corners in warm pockets of thrusting green life. I see my father as a young child, escaping into a dream world where movement became brain matter.
[Mate. uh. Shook. yell. Moot. uh. Point. shot.]

I am caught in the cycle or grid-like fantasies.