Vegetables

Black beans, yellow corn, beets, an unnameable palish root, potatoes, radishes, cheese, kale baking 450 degrees fahrenheit covered in a variety of spices from seafood flavors to asian flavors, all simmering in there until it’s time to eat. I found out why it’s been choking hard to breathe in here where there hasn’t been any physical indication of smoke. My roommate’s mother is in jail and her brother is staying here tonight, and all the family stuff is in her face bringing out a variety of intense, emotional states, that, finally I can see has been the cause of such suffocation surrounding moments of the kitchen’s clouds and throat. We’re all directed at death, but how each travels in this instant is indicative of how, the time life uses, constitutes the taste of undeniable ingredients. And many times there’s nothing we can do, but be present with heart, or like this instant, bake vegetables. People can’t help their helplessness, just how today’s date helplessly is going to change into tomorrow’s date at 12 am and 1 second. Again I cut my finger, but this time while chopping a potato. I was so into cutting that potato, slice went my finger. Which isn’t to say there isn’t room for not blaming, it is, when blaming occurs, like the microscope focus on how insufficient a dirty room appears; this bandaid effect can’t last long. The bandaid on my cut will inevitably become too soggy in the shower and fall off. Her eyes will have to endure what this country has imprisoned away from the faces of its inhabitants too long–a liberty that isn’t American but human, and yes humans live in America but America is made of humans not American-humans but humans who are American. Liberty losing the physical security of her eyes jiggle out of place and pop out of their sockets then snap out of their dangle as a swath of worms instantly pour down from the holes in her skull; it’s easy to see how responsibility becomes the fruition of having released the spherical-walls to drop–but remaining a vegetable on to how to abide as unique shape of this instant; the bird song coming through the open early evening window, helplessly, the restless action liberty takes to blame and destroy, however with a roommate, it’s simply to weep. We have a hot tub in the backyard, and it’s of little effort to get into a bathing suit and sit in there and look up at the sky, and know, while suburbia surrounds the safety of warm thick mist of jacuzzi bubbles, (which causes a thick mist to encompass an exotic aroma of what it is to be okay), the world is only a perception of earth and yet there is room to evolve, room to enable a difference in the river-absorbed heaviness of a drowning kitchen. I found out about her mother because I told her boyfriend “you don’t seem very happy,” which of course opened a closet, a closet widely open between the two of them. It gave me steps to go downstairs into the psyche of their relationship and hear the cries, tremors, and engorged rigid nerves attempting to remain American with the turgid undertaking to regulate a house-wall. This of course was an opportunity to see the confinements exactly: a helicopter looking over an undoubtable geographical region of consciousness within a human body surrounded by contours of the closet’s display. It indeed is a beautiful country. Driving up 36 west from Broomfield, mountains extending north and south, and behind those mountains, mountains covered in snow, and the grey sky with patches of light dispersed across miles. The vegetables are ready.

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