mange mes mots

Putting words in my mouth.

I am forced to eat those assuming and imperious remarks you make with such obstinance.

Bitter and fermented, these notions upset my stomach and I remain at the table like a good dinner guest.

You haven’t yet addressed it, and it’s hard for me to digest it, so I phase out

thinking of reading Infinite Jest and I’m tired.

All these inspired references to the now expired Wallace breeds in me the desire to understand the mess we live in,

But back to you, here in the living room.

You were saying?

Ah, yes. The andragogical schooling of my previously stated accounts.

Counting the inconsistencies and with your rebuttal, I’m confuddled.

Confounded, confined and outside my mind, I’m outie

Feeling quite pouty and ready to wrap this up,

I pop in my earbuds, rap in the lineup,

I depart; bid you adieu

And in lieu of pleasantries, I step out into the garden filled with pleasant trees

Fruit bearing and prophetic of harvest

I’m poetic and finding it hardest

to express myself with clarity.

In step with the beat, cultivating asperity.

Tired and waning.

Fired up and flaming.

Confused and certain.

Certainly confused,

Troubled like Merton.

Typing now.

Prepping, cooking and serving.

You eat my words.

Digesting them and turning them over.

How do they taste?

Like leftovers?

All of this has been said before, digested and regurgitated in different forms and phrases.

I’m sitting here, seasoning these sentences, peppering this prose,

Breaking down my words in digestive juices of skepticism and doubt like Ernst:

“Eat myself without feeding myself.”

 

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