I'm sick. Have been since I was a kid. Never-ending nausea that makes me retch. Sometimes worse. Like when I was three and puked all over the kid playing blocks beside me in preschool, looked at him and dumped my guts on both of us.
Now I aim for the page. Chunks of words choked on, sit down and purge. Speak, think, write, read, and try to digest. Edit if I can, just to spit up in the end. No matter what, I puke. It's how I get shit out.
I'm at my best in the toilet, typing, letting my mind heave from thought to thought, word to word, sorting the chunks to find the kernels, getting out the poison. Time to time I find things I never ate, parts of myself I've never seen and don't know where they come from. I glue 'em into characters and words no one's ever heard. Stitch 'em into monsters never meant to exist 'cause they're stronger than me. Language is the speech of thought and that's all we are. Words. So many, every one takes time to twist, turn and sort, rearrange, redefine and aptly apply.
Come to think of it, we're all force-fed, chewed up and regurgitated, misconstrued and manipulated. Question is, how do you feel after your meal? I hope you get sick like me, gag on the bolus of context and drown us all in vomit. Join the flood. 'Cause the more we eat, the happier we are being fed. Hungry men find food. Fat men find a bed, and I've been on my knees for years. The more fingers down my throat the better.
Vomit first appeared in Having A Whiskey Coke With You, Vol. 1 Iss. 6, December 2011
Download a copy here: http://havingawhiskeycokewithyou.tumblr.com/
Now I aim for the page. Chunks of words choked on, sit down and purge. Speak, think, write, read, and try to digest. Edit if I can, just to spit up in the end. No matter what, I puke. It's how I get shit out.
I'm at my best in the toilet, typing, letting my mind heave from thought to thought, word to word, sorting the chunks to find the kernels, getting out the poison. Time to time I find things I never ate, parts of myself I've never seen and don't know where they come from. I glue 'em into characters and words no one's ever heard. Stitch 'em into monsters never meant to exist 'cause they're stronger than me. Language is the speech of thought and that's all we are. Words. So many, every one takes time to twist, turn and sort, rearrange, redefine and aptly apply.
Come to think of it, we're all force-fed, chewed up and regurgitated, misconstrued and manipulated. Question is, how do you feel after your meal? I hope you get sick like me, gag on the bolus of context and drown us all in vomit. Join the flood. 'Cause the more we eat, the happier we are being fed. Hungry men find food. Fat men find a bed, and I've been on my knees for years. The more fingers down my throat the better.
Vomit first appeared in Having A Whiskey Coke With You, Vol. 1 Iss. 6, December 2011
Download a copy here: http://havingawhiskeycokewithyou.tumblr.com/
