Prospect Park Story

I live on meat.
I play the carnivore.
Among thousands of people who, each play their role,
I put on a costume of a meat-eater.
It’s like an apron, but it’s really not. And what hunger craves, unwillingly, tastes bitter.

I’m having a bite in a company of a neuroscientist,
who plays the role of an all time skeptic.
A nonchalant leather jacket, despite the weather at the age of thirty.

I’m eating lunch with someone wearing a costume of an attorney in law.
I’m biting off chunks of sinewy beef,
while they browse through their briefcase for god knows what.

I am thirty something and I don’t know a thing.
I once had dinner with someone who was seventy three, and knew nothing either.
To my delight they left the costume of a sage at home that night.

I had a meal too with a man who could not have sex with his wife.
It tasted bland. The meal and the thought.
I said I was sorry. I said I didn’t know.

I only know, I live on meat.
And on this other thing, that this little island is so tired of ,
even though it means the universe.

Universe tastes sinewy and bitter too.
I know, I’m losing something, as digestion process comes through.
God, it’s so cold.
The universe is raw.
I’m losing something and it’s not me.
And it’s not you either.
I’ve lost you a million times before I ever said you were the one that I loved, and needed.

I’m still wearing a costume of someone in grief.
Even though I know I can believe,
(Believe more than anyone ever believed in the history of bleeding.)

Prospect Park froze over night.
I laughed in the face of the frost.
In the company of someone in a costume of tough.
Then we both went home and we laughed more, till we cried.
(It’s okay, they have it worse in Chicago).

I’ve been.
Even nicotine
Does not want to kick in.

The water froze in the kettle.
Peeing feels warm.
I’m chewing on words
Mold them in my mouth as they miss the target and go.
I took off my costume.
Paper takes all.

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