by Eli Skipp
The Mexican cart on the corner sells chicharrones fried
in the fat of pure dissonance. Pinwheels of dough are
dropped into the rendered and essential forms of John
Cage and Igor Stravinsky, and you buy them in bags for
one dollar and twenty five cents.
You purchase them because life is difficult for you, for
when trying to sleep your brain creates miraculous connections
and you miss them dearly, unable to grasp them upon
climbing the rungs back to consciousness, and when trying
to interact with other people you feel a vague sense of panic
somewhere just behind your ribcage and heart, and when
trying to sound sincere you suffer from a complete inability
to do so, and thus have spent a portion of your life terrified
you aren't being taken seriously.
Each bite of chicharron, you've come to realize, sends bleating
and tattered electrical impulses through the tiniest bones and
the minute hairs of your inner ear, sending your neurons spinning
at an alarming rate. Within the delicious crunching is an obstacle
and your brain struggles in a great big tug-of-war to make sense
of the signals.
It fails miserably. In response, like a cane toad pissing on your
hand, it begins vomiting dopamine through the streams and
rivers of your cranial folds.
You hallucinate wildly. The rational frontal regions of your brain
catalogue the visual and audial schizophrenic output:
Author's Note: From the series "It Was a Monster Big River Down There."
Posted on 12/15/2010
Copyright © 2022 Eli Skipp