Rush

Danced through mazes of people to

get here – to you. A spot on the floor forgotten

by geography and curious explorers.



Some speech spilled out of our mouths

only to fall to the floor and receive

the soles of those left over for the next song.



Pleasantries really, that first dance – an exchange

of the mutual – an awkward mosaic composed in

the colors of initial blush.



How the floor pulsated through the toes up

and up

out the top of the head – a river of signals

synthesized rushing to a grand receiver in space.



And I embraced the apparent deterioration of

my muscles – now thin invisible supports for

my limbs like translucent spaghetti straps to a

twentysomething’s dress.



We stood as if only a divine cue

could crash down and smother us

in understanding – something solid to hold onto.

And the touch –

was like spatterings of sizzling fat flung up

and down the spine.



Music gave permission to continue

from the freeze frame of first fear.

So, self-control held hands with shy

and slid down my leg leaving pools

to pummel with rhythm.



A mass of dancers so close

created a swarm sound that could deafen

the most leaden ear. Music ceased to matter –

lulled backward in panting patterns lost on

me and you – two of the confused.



An elixir of musk – sweat – shampoo hovering

between nausea and euphoria – each one a

personal con artist to my nerve cells.



I’m falling –

and to stop moving would hurt too much.

Eggs n' Grits

It’s a ritual really; my many mornings spent in perfecting parboiled eggs and getting grits to assemble into a creamy congregation. I cannot recall when this breakfast practice first began; but, as I continued to crack the first attempts at parboiled eggs, I’m sure the events leading up to it were runny and slimy. Honestly, aren’t most of our comfort food creations born from some slimy times?

For a brief time, while focusing on the yolks, I came to understand this as purely protein, and not as a chicken’s child. Also, there came the realization that some people would never share this meal with me simply because they had not made this crucial division. I can respect that. However, I can’t help but feel like they may be missing out on one of the world’s best combos.

Grits get a bad image instantly due to their unfortunate name. While laughing in the face of convention, I make mine into explicitly gritty, creamy goodness. Distractions have led to stiff grits, and soupy mixtures that couldn’t pass for pig slop. Ah yes, the splendor of trial and error is a terrifyingly beautiful thing. Only experience has taught me to balance the butter and swirl the yellow yolk ribbons into such a divine dish.

Perhaps in the future I will add some snippets of bacon or maybe some crumbles of crunchiness in no particular form. I have found my comfort food, and I eat from a bowl full of potential.