-painful means to a happy ending-

don’t ask me what’s cooking.

i am the spam of the earth, the burnt bits of corned beef sticking persistently to your teflon-coated fryer. i am garlic, burning in butter, hissing out in a pan of pain.

i shrivel easily, like badly kneaded pastry. and in times that i don’t shrink, i bloat like batter– crunchy on the outside, empty on the inside.

i am junk food, artificial flavoring, monosodium glutamate, olestra, sodium nitrite, 210 milligrams of 3,4-methylenedioxymethamphetamine dissolved in 6 ounces of frozen orange juice ready to ease your pain and unleash your inner bitch.

i am the poster-boy for chemical adulteration, your food additive, your chosen carcinogen, the cotton in your candy whetting your addiction with stale plumes of sugar fumes, a fake form of sweetness: cyclamate, stevia, aspartame, saccharin…

i am the leftover lard that oozes out of your grease-fed porkchop dinner, coagulating faster than blood on the edges of your fridge-crisped microwave-ready plasticware.

i am mold and mildew, salmonellae, listeria, staphylococcus aureus, vibrio vunificus– often quiet, sometimes invisible, poised to seal your breath away by touch of tongue.

throw me away and still, i’ll remain. i’ll haunt you with the stink of a household legion: maggots, roaches, flies, mice. take your pick.

so don’t ask me what’s cooking.

just open your mouth.

and let me in.

It’s a slow friday night.

Outside, the weather washes over streets like the uncomfortable silence that drowned us just a few minutes ago.

It’s numbingly cold– for some reason. My voice, if it had substance, would have frozen over the phone. I had nothing to say. I’ve got nothing to do. It’s a slow friday night, easing into the weekend like a tired marathon runner at the last leg of a back alley race. You look at the finish line– too tired to be wry.

I’m encouraged to ask what i don’t need to ask. It almost feels like standing on a sidewalk where empty cabs pass me by knowing i’m looking for a ride.

This whole gaping wound thing has got me. It gets to me. I walk without a bounce. I trudge. That’s the word. I’m trudging home to a slow friday night looking for something to soak up. I am spongebob– looking for sutures.

The weather is trivial. Whether the skies are clear, the city lights blot it out anyway.

This city gets to me.

Maybe i’m just sapped dry by the thought of running after one small reason to smile.

It’s a slow friday night.

It’s ok.

It’s always ok.