i write once a month. maybe. if that. when you chew food over and over it degrades, wet gunk, bland monotonous mess, & my mind treats words the same. fuck. i was bulimic for almost a year and i think it did something to my brain. i find digestion overrated: let me grab fistfuls of things. i want to dip a hulking ladle into the water of life and empty it into my poems, to see the world with the restless wonder of a child. and i can, if i back away from language far enough; the words got a new glint when i return to them, and i pick the ones that catch my eye. i give primal reaction form. don't you see? this world is a fractal and maybe we weren't meant to follow it all the way down. aren't your tongues tired?