The planter's fireworks

Faces stepping into the room. Crystal balls whirling in the ceiling. Neon colors madly banging the walls. Her eyes hurt. She had wanted to see clearly. Haze of cigarette smoke. They were prancing like lunatics. Brushing their lustful bodies smoothly unto each other. He held her waist like a fruit's basket, stooped a little and whispered in a lulling baritone, "will you step out for a while?" A stranger's call. She shivered to reply, "why?" she asked as she felt obliged. "I have something very important to say."

They closed the door, opened more doors to escape the thunder of drums. Stepped out in the deplorable evening where the moon cowered behind the dense city smog. Darkness looming down from the empty night sky. Traffic lights, trafficking. There was a flicker in his eyes.

"Hey," he said, calling her attention. "Can you recognize me?" Brown irises met. No. She could not. "Never mind that," he seized her wrist. "Come with me," he said. "I think I remember you," she said. She did not, in truth; but she said it anyway. The gin washed her memories again, she thought. Admitting she did not remember although in reality (without the gin), she did, will shame her again once she will return to her sanity. "You probably do not remember me," he said while he caressed her sleek body like the stem of a budding rose. "What are you doing here, by the way?" He mouthed her nose teasingly as if to say, "can you remember my scent?" She remembered vaguely. "I am the lead guitarist." He laced his fingers on her spaghetti straps and started plucking, "that stupid instrument of yours," he teased her again, plucked the other strap. "I think I remember now," she told herself.

Brown irises met again. The pupils, dilated. "How did you know where to find me?" They walked in a darklit spot, where even cars did not shine on. "Saw you in that instrument of yours. Read where you'll be playing." They parked under the newly planted tree. It was government-funded. The volunteers came a year ago to deposit the tree in that sterile soil. Infertile would be more appropriate. Infertile soil. "I always knew you'd follow your heart." He drew her close and tight. So close, she was squeezed. "You are mine at last!" That's what he would have wanted to say; but he managed only to whisper, "I always knew you would..." "I ran," she said, her voice faltering; "I ran away," desperately, she continued, "Did you always know that?" He never knew. But he lied. That virile lie again. Uttered to please a woman, "Yes of course! I knew you would. Always knew you're a strong woman." She leaned closer, wanted to be squeezed.

"Get up now," he pulled back, pushed her beside him again. "We cannot stay closer to the building. Let's inch away farther." They abandoned the tree. The young leaves decocted, crushed under the weight of their flesh. "Where to? I was just shaking off the gin. I need to play on stage an hour from now. You must take me back!" He clasped her bony wrist and dragged her. She let him.

"We cannot," he said, "there will be no hour." He waved his pointing finger in front of the speeding blue taxi. He pushed her woman. "Just go straight," he commanded the man like an emperor. The emperor and his wife. They were speeding straight. The woman, silent, subversively silent. Entwined in his arms, she felt safe--that nothing can harm her. Nothing. Not even a pin can prick her. "Here. Stop here." He paid the driver and drew out his woman...kissed her forehead, kissed her cheeks, her ears... "I always knew it. I knew it!" She knew it. She knew it! She had known him long ago; and she fancied she knew him just then--assuming nothing had changed. "What brought you here? Have you gone weary of the mountains?"

They squatted under a tree again, a grown one this time, with leaves as lush as the forest where he had stayed for four years now. "I came here for this!" He wrapped her mouth with his. Pressed lightly like a powder, he wrapped her with his. Passion of yesteryears oozed like cheese on stuffed pizza crust. "I came here for this" was all he said. And they both fell silent in their furtive business. On top of the dank grass, she lay gazing at the distant stars--like dreams that never came true. He stole her sight and pressed his mouth lightly on her neck. "I never thought I'd see you again. How are you by the way?" She looked at him wistfully, wanting to be kissed again. "Didn't you hear? I'm a guitarist now. I play to earn money."

"I was not pertaining to that," he said. They both lay quivering when the cold breeze swept by. "When will you be leaving?" She brushed the kinky hairs in his chest. "Soon. When the fire has broken." "I don't understand, what will you get from this?" The grass was silent. "And when will you be coming back?" The grass swayed a bit. "I don't know," he said. "Let's part here!" She dustered the discussion in oblivion. A capricous remark, he thought, as expected of women, he said. Then she brushed his hand, picked her straps and hastily slipped away from the man whom she would never see again.

A kilometer from where he stood, the building shattered. Wires sprang like held rubber bands. The city lit like a candle...like fireworks! Everywhere, it was flickering. How she loved the lights! He blew it down for her. No, not for her who left him. But for her who never lived. He conceived all these because he was bored, by the way: the girl and the blue taxi. It was a lie. A wish. He had always wanted a girl who could play strings.

This is what happened. Faces stepped into the room. He, included. His momentary gaze whirled with the oscillating crystal ball in the ceiling. Neon colors madly banged the walls like rockstars. Haze of cigarette smoke. Men were prancing like lunatics. Brushing their lustful bodies smoothly unto women. No one saw. He furtively planted. Then he slid out of the room. He sauntered in the roadside until he reached the park. There, he squatted alone and waited for the moment. "This is it! This is it! It flickered at last. "

Story concluded without her. And no. This is not a lie.

Oatmeal cookies

I have been very preoccupied with my social and domestic obligations during the past days. I foretell that there will be a lot more; nevertheless, as much as possible, I will try to prioritize those that are essential for my growth as a person and thus, on the coming days, I will come only on parties/gatherings which I think will teach me something. I need to get back to the lab tomorrow and finish this scientific write-up I'm working on today.

Meanwhile, I will record another one of my attempts in the kitchen. Last Christmas, while I was helping out with all the cooking and baking, I realized two things: I really really love pastries and pastas! :D :D I'm currently climbing the first (steep) step into the baking world... I wish to become a virtuoso one day.

Most of the meals I prepared last Christmas were quite greasy, creamy, cheesy... I purposely baked Oatmeal cookies even though it's not seemingly one of those "Christmas recipes" because my grandmother has hypertension. At least she has something to nibble while we feast on foods that elevate LDLs.

Here's my recipe:

Grandma's Oatmeal Cookie
mix thoroughly:
2 cups butter
3 cups sugar
4 whole eggs

stir in:
1 cup sour evaporated milk



sift together and stir in:
3 1/2 sifted all purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons cinnamon

stir in:
4 cups rolled oats
2 cups cut up raisins.

Drop by teaspoonful on ungreased baking sheet and bake until golden brown.
Baking time: 8 to 10 minutes.
Temperature: 180-200 C.








Happy happy Christmas! XOXO

Simple Way to Bake Pies

I started cooking when I was in second year high school--the time when our bank account plummeted and we had to "dispose" our helpers. It was also the time when we had to sell our big house in exchange for a smaller one which at first sight, I could never imagine myself calling it a house. My major complaint at that time was my allergies and why we could not afford to go to a dermatologist. That was the only reason why I kept crying; but for the rest? I was able to hastily adapt.

My mother assigned my older brother in the kitchen; he was tasked to cook our dinner on weekdays. Lazy as he was, he wanted to unburden himself with the chore. Because I play the "youngest role," and because I was the only person whom he could bully at home, he "generously" partitioned the task and forcefully assigned me to cook on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Worse, he would always come home late on Friday evenings so I get to do all the cooking on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. @___@

...My big brother's now in Cebu; and even though we already have a helper, I remain to be the one responsible in the kitchen when my parent's are out. I really love feeding Gus and Ate Doodie (my siblings)! My ears swell with joy every time I hear them say, "this is delicious" or "bake/cook me this or that..."

***
A simple way to bake pies

Yesterday, I baked Apple and Cinnamon Pie for my brother. My mom never wrote this in her notebook; neither did I download a recipe on line. I realized that all pies are governed with the same principle that's why my recipe turned out to be a success.

Last week, I baked Mango Pie; the other week I baked squash pie. Among the three (apple and cinnamon, squash and mango pie) squash pie's the most nutritious; apple and cinnamon is the most delicious. Here's my recipe:

For the filling:
1 can Evaporated Milk
1 can Condensed Milk
1 tablespoon Butter
1 Egg Yolk
1/2 cup cornstarch
2 cups apple/mango/squash
(for apple pie: add 2 teaspoons cinnamon)


For the crust:
1 cup butter/margarine
2 1/2 cups all purpose flour
6 tablespoons water

Procedure:
(1)Mix butter/margarine and flour. Knead in the pan. Add volume to the edges for the crust.
(2)Mix all ingredients for the filling. Pour in the pan.
(3)Bake for 30-40 minutes at 180 C.

I use the blender to mix the ingredients for the filling; but you can also use the electric mixer or you can do it by hand. However, I suggest you use the blender. You can put tidbits in the mango pie and add layers of sliced apples in apple and cinnamon pie! I will probably be baking squash pie for everyday consumption. It's the most nutritious. However, as I have said earlier, apple and cinnamon pie is the most delicious. Utada Hikaru was right:

"Chemistry like apple and cinnamon is just too good to last..."

(You might want to listen to Apple and Cinnamon by Utada Hikaru. I really adore this song. Good night best...)

The Mayon Erupted

The once imperceptible village of about fifty families, each living under Nipa roofs, was nearly washed out when the quiet and tranquil Mayon vomited tons of energized fireballs. "The President must be informed," one of the so-called concerned citizen who identified himself as one of the President's friends, immediately snatched his cellular phone and sent a message to His Majesty. No one died, fortunately. What the citizens were more concerned of was the fact that their livelihood had already been buried under layers of watered pyroclastics.

The President never read the message. Unfortunately again. The citizen who claimed to be his friend sent it to the wrong number--the number the President used when he was councilor of Legaspi; and that was ten years ago, the time when cellular phones were only a rich man's ornaments. Times had changed--and so did the President's number. He never read the message, hence.

The President, because he was surrounded with well-informed and technology-savvy friends, immediately learned of it three seconds before his old friend attempted to channel the message. He was slicing a platter of milkfish belly sauced with coconut milk when one of his assistant bowed lower to reach his ears so to inform him that, "Mayon had erupted and no one died, fortunately. What the citizens were more concerned of was the fact that their livelihood had already been buried under layers of watered pyroclastics." The President crushed the belly fat in his palate and feasted like a glutton.

When he was finished, however, he secluded himself inside the comfort room, stared at his bald head and started pulling his hair. He twisted the knob, walked hastily and forgot about urinating.

Out of the comfort room, he called his assistant and said, "identify a possible place for relocation!" "Yes sir," his assistant mechanically replied. "And by the way, make sure the site still has pili trees." He walked out and called another assistant, "deliver the relief-goods as soon as possible."

Meanwhile, the village which only began to exist when the volcano erupted, had been receiving visitors from all over the country. Most of them came not to distribute bags of rice but only to record their latest condition. As usual, the goods came a day late. For a day, hence, the citizens ate whatever it was that they scratched beneath the lahar. "We cannot go back to our village. There is no food there." The indigo pili fruits were drenched in hot, gray mud. "We do not have a place to live." The children began to cry in front of the camera. No longer could they jump in ecstasy since their stomach needed filling.

"We can relocate them at the foothill. There, the trees did not harden," one of the assistants reported.

Mothers started to become hysterical since their kids had nothing to eat. "Why is the government not moving? Why is the government not moving? Why?"

"Are there settlers in that area? How much do we need to buy the owner off that place?" The President was eating a mouthful of sauteed shrimp. "Make haste, gentleman!" He excused himself to the comfort room, pulled his hair and forgot to urinate.

Mothers started crying and their husbands were angry, "What kind of government do we have?"

The President retired to bed with memories hovering in his pillow. He missed the days when he used to tuck pili nuts under his shirt...and how he hammered them with the black basalt stones his mother used to rub her skin with.

An afternoon with the deaf

How it plays in my mind
a rolling film
of bantering lies
that whipped me in the wind.
One Saturday, he sat beside me.

My mouth, it fell like an auburn leaf
(while listening to him)
cheeks, he squashed like overriped tomatoes
my two sweaty hands reached for him
I wanted him, I prayed.

I extended my arm,
"Pull me," I said.
Thunder-coyed.
The sun was flickering.

Two hollowed gazes were knifed in the sky.
Black depths, hollowed
of impenetrable energy.
I was scorched in the afternoon.
Skin-fried in the frosty glimmer of his eyes.

He wrapped me in violet saliva
exposed only: my hair
which he clawed and knotted
to a canon leaving for Mars.

(He) packed me with a band of green dwarves
and fed me with a pail of crystal white rocks.
I cried, "Have Mercy."
"Have mercy..."

But he was deaf, I learned
so I stopped talking.

Dark Faerie

The day crawled like a catterpillar that's why I flew home hastily so I could prey on my books. Before I do that, however, I desire to officially open the "gates" to my Druid Tower. This nook is my virtual "coffeeshop." This is where I will write about the usual nonsensical clamours about my life in general and the place where I dwell in. I will tackle about subjects which people usually discuss in a coffeeshop. However, for the sake of solipsism, I will call this "Dark Faerie"--the tangible chocolateshop (and not coffee because I do not drink coffee) which I intend to put up once I have become adept in baking and once I have enough cash for my capital. Welcome to Dark Faerie, the place where you can languidly slouch and sip glasses of bittersweet thoughts.

Here are the portals to the other rooms:

(1)Laboratory-- this is where I will store my scientific output.
(2)Closet-- the chamber where I pick a random wardrobe.

No Sans Rival :-(

My bestfriend will arrive any minute soon. I still haven't baked the dessert she asked me to prepare: Sans Rival. How in the world will I be able to magically mold this layered dessert when I do not even know how to make meringue? I don't have an aluminum foil in the kitchen; if I'll attempt to make one now, the meringue will probably stick in the pan and put an end to my experiment. What will I do? What will I do? @___@ I was planning to make muffins, actually; but she asked me to bake Sans Rival. My cooking skill has not yet rocketed to that level, and I'm so frustrated. Baking muffins is a no-sweat. But sans rival?

Anyway, I made two platters of squash pie the other day. Pies are so easy to prepare! I wish my bestfriend asked me to bake pies instead. But sans rival? What will I do? She will be here any minute soon. Can I just buy her sans rival from a coffee shop somewhere in Davao City? That's it. I'm settled. We will hunt for sans rival in one of the city's coffee shops. Then, I will get the chance to scrutinize the cake and etch a picture of it in my head. And like what I always do every time I take examinations way back in college, I can finally craft one in utmost perfection.

Meanwhile, I will make a flan, her favorite in the wide universe!

Regrets

I have regrets. I wish I matured earlier. That way, I would have thought of registering my name so I could vote in the 2010 election. I was an idiot who knew nothing about reality that's why the thought never came across my head. I have drastically matured, I realized. I badly want to take part in the life-changing event this May. Will I make a difference? I really don't know. But even if I won't, at least I can bask myself with the thought that I attempted to...

I also do not have a voter's ID. I never knew I needed it for my applications. I sent my application last Monday. I could not avail for the regionalization program because I did not register. Now I have to compete nationally. How can I woo my panelist with a meager percentile rating of 96? I wish I studied last year. I would have gotten a higher rating. Ninety-six. That is all what my innate intelligence can yield. If I studied, I would have obtained 99. If they will reject my application this May, I have no one else to blame but myself. I abonimate rejections. Out of fear, perhaps. I fear to get dumped and be treated like a useless crap. Nevertheless, I will try this time.

Virgin Hair

Just this afternoon, I bid adios to my messy hair (<----). I went to the salon and asked them to give me a solution.

Hairdresser: Did you ever have a treatment before?
G: No.
H: No rebond?
G: No.
H: Relax?
G: No.
H: Do you iron your hair?
G: No.
H: Ah, I see. So you have a virgin hair.
G: (no reply. I was pondering: Really? Hair strands get fucked? But I'm sure she was pertaining to an "untouched" hair.) Yes. A virgin hair. I never had treatments (err, I seldom comb my hair, by the way). What can you suggest?
H: Your hair is not used to chemicals.
G: (Yes, indeed! I'm allergic to chemicals). What is the best solution? Can I get a semi-rebond or a rebond?
H: You can but it's not advisable. You have a virgin hair.
G: (To myself, I said: Great! I only came here to ask you to comb my hair.) What's the treatment with the very minimal amount of chemicals?
H: Gloss!
G: Ok. A gloss it is.

The hairdresser applied a creamy dirty-white colloid in my hair which started to irritate my scalp. I didn't have antihistamine tablets with me, so I panicked. Now that it's over, I can finally do away with my comb and utilize my fingers to fix my hair!

---to be continued---

Chocolate Brownies

I once again left my mom's magic recipe notebook when I was procuring the ingredients at one of the local shopping malls. I was not even able to download a random brownie recipe online. When I arrived at the grocery section, I just dumped the ingredients which I think were necessary. Fortunately, when I got home and I immediately read entries on How to Bake Brownies, I was so euphoric to find out that I was able to buy everything I needed. I based my judgment on the chocolate cake recipe which I permanently etched on my hippocampus. Brownie is just a chocolate cake minus the moisture. It's a chocolate cake minus the milk and the baking soda.

Ingredients:

1 cup cocoa powder
1 1/2 cup all purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 cup butter
1 1/2 cup sugar (or 2 cups; it depends on you)
4 eggs

optional:
peanuts (or sugar-coated chocolates, chocolate bits, etc.)
1 teaspoon vanilla

Baking brownies is like dumping mud in a pan. Just mix and dump, mix, dump, mix, dump. When you bake brownies think of mud and the pieces of stones mixed with it. The coarser the better. I realized that it's better to use a hand mixer for this. I'm fond of using the electronic mixer from Imarflex. Although it saves a lot of energy, when baking brownies, so as to create a rougher texture, I suggest that you use the hand mixer.

Here's a very simple overview on how to bake chocolate brownies:
(1) Cream butter. Add sugar. Mix.
(2) Add eggs one by one. Add sugar.
(3) On another bowl, sift flour, cocoa and baking powder. Mix.
(4) Add flour mixture.
(5) Mix thoroughly.

Dump the mud in a pan. Set the oven at 150-200 C. Bake and you're done!!!











I'm so excited for Christmas!!! Weee. I plan to bake so many cakes and pastries! Among my priorities are: Fruit Cake, Apple Pie and Chocolate Moist Cake. I also plan to bake Fondant Cake; but it's too sweet, maybe I should leave it for later. I really do not like sweet sweet cakes. :( I prefer the bitter-sweet ones!

The Gioconda Smile

Last week, while I was lying feverish in bed, I feasted on a short novel written by Aldous Huxley entitled, The Gioconda Smile. Evidently, the title was alluding to Leonardo Da Vinci's most enigmatic portrait, La Gioconda (which by the way, is popularly known as, Mona Lisa). Named after Lisa Gherardini, Da Vinci immortalized an image of her with a mysteriously reserved smile which was seemingly trying to conceal a clandestine of some sort.

Akin to the portrait of Lisa Gherardini, Janet Spence, always grins with an air of mystery every time her long-time friend, Henry Hutton drops by for a little chat. Henry Hutton is married to a woman who, like all roses, has withered and aged. Typical of most men, Hutton abandons his wife in quest for a younger, livier and more alluring object. Ms. Spence, being Hutton's confidant, has known all these.Despite that, however, she still continues to nurture the secret sensation of love for her friend which is never revealed because every time he draws near, she cannot do more than carve a Gioconda smile.

The Gioconda Smile is one the greatest British Short Novels written. Like The Lifted Veil (by George Eliot) and The Dead (by James Joyce), The Gioconda Smile tackles a similar subject: memories of love in the past and the people married at present.

Most specifically, these exemplary novels look into the agony of being chained by the sacred vow. Usually, as I have mentioned in my previous posts, married people draw ecstasy in the first four years. Later, they would find themselves tangled in the cobwebs of boredom. I guess the most important factor in choosing a mate, aside from physical, intellectual and spiritual attraction, is the personality. One must be able to find his/her complement. They do not necessarily have to be exactly "opposite" like the two poles, north and south. They only have to be synchronous and complementary like the notes played by the violin and piano.

The Vampire Returns

To pass time while I was printing my mom's handouts for another one of her speaking engagements, I browsed through my November pictures. I saw two pictures which seemed to portray two characters which I badly want to play given a chance: a pixie and a vampire. For some unfathomable reasons, I really really want to become a vampire or a pixie. :D

The Vampire Returns. (This is for my horror movie!)

I use loose powder!

It is my desire to become a researcher/scientist in the biomedical field. However, I do not wish to settle with that alone. After months of experience as a budding researcher, I realized that, in order to "hoard" money, a scientist must learn how to do business. A scientist will never get rich if she crouches inside her laboratory, 24-7. Knowledge needs to flow out so the cash keeps coming in. I want to venture into pharmaceuticals so that I can throw free medicine to my deprived countrymen.

A friend of mine suggested a couple of months ago, that, if I really want to become a scientist/businesswoman in the biomedical field, I must, as early as now, learn business by perhaps, selling cosmetics. I realized that I will not be able to do that not until I get my hair and body polished. I have estimated that I need at least two years considering the rate at which my teeth will realign. Uneven pigmentation is also a problem because I'm currently doing agricultural researches and I cannot help but get exposed in the blazing heat once in a while. To top all these, however, the main trouble is the fact that I do not know how to use cosmetics. @___@

How can a woman sell cosmetics if she doesn't know how to use them? I will probably be frequented with questions like, "how should I apply this?" "what is the best product?" "are you sure your product works?" or "have you tried other products?"

Four months ago, I started practising. One dreary Saturday afternoon, I went to a local shopping mall and scouted for a compact powder. I purchased the one with SPF 15. Although the tone was a bit darker, I continued to use it because condemning it was tantamount to throwing away two movie tickets and one big pack of fish crackers. Dear Fate probably pitied me. "Why on earth does this woman wear a darker powder?" And so a week after, while I was walking and hurrying to work, the press powder suddenly fell on the concrete road. The powder cracked. End of story.

Two weeks later, I gave myself another chance. Once again, I went to a local shopping mall and preyed on another compact powder. Since the first was darker, this time, I bought another with a lighter shade. I refrained from purchasing the one with SPF because I was so frightened I might lose two movie tickets and a big pack of fish crackers again. Also, I bought the smallest one! In case the color would not suit me, I could throw it away unencumbered because it was just as cheap as one movie ticket. Indeed, the tone suited me well. Unfortunately, it was too small, I immediately consumed the powder in a span of two weeks! When I went to the same store again hoping to purchase a bigger one, the sales representive told me that they ran out of stock. I didn't have an option but to buy on another stall.

I chose the one with the label, "tan." When I rubbed it in my face and went to my sister's room to show it off, I colored purple when she started laughing, "hahaha. What happened to your face?" What happened to my face was the question that razored my head the entire night. Obviously, the color did not suit me again. Upon careful scrutiny, I realized that my skin is not "tan." It is yellowish-olive! I immediately condemned the powder and forgot about the movie tickets and the big pack of fish crackers.

I just wasn't giving up, however. A week after that, I went back to the vanity area and purchased a yellowish compact powder. The shade was perfect! However, I realized that I was getting more blitz than usual. Once again, I condemned the powder, thinking I was probably allergic to it. And so, right now, I'm using loose powder! @___@I am yet to scout for a hypoallergenic yellowish compact powder!

I learned a lot through trial and error (mostly error)! I will venture into pharmaceuticals one day; but I guess I still have to traverse an awfully lenghty cobbled walk.

(Good night best! )

Evening feast

I lack the appetite.

The lemon rind spits on my plate
drops of acrid curses
tease a hole
I have not the desire, I say
break me, plate, glass...

I dodge the hyena mock with a ladle
saying "I cannot want!"
Never.

My anger mirrored on the silver curve
bloodshot eyes, bulge
veins pulsate
like the pendulum tick
(It is following)
on the narra wood twelve times
the conservative house calls me.

Chocolate bog melts on the streets
(coming, calling)
dreary stems of unhappy roses
wilt in the thick smog
the sleepy night ever so sleepy.

That languorous wind song (again)
teasing me again,
Waltzing with repressed desires
(I am hungry, maybe).
My weak limbs, aching
empty with the sweetness of sugar
if only I can suck the nectar.

My tongue, burns.
My lip, burns.
(I am hungry! I am hungry! I am hungry!)

The narra wood, dials.
Hello to the black slate
streets with dimmed sodium lamps
no one is watching
look above, the moon cowers.

My canine teeth bite like dagger stabs!
I attack most desperately
(A woman who never held swords)
lick pink ginger foot flesh,
gangrened thumbnails
and thumb bones
kiss broken ankles.
Smell the aroma of mud.
(It must have rained lately).

I tear the wound apart
untangle hair
rip veins
claw hips and ribs.
(Look above, the moon cowers).
With empty mouth, salivate
tip of tongue touching soil
A rabid dog!
(my ears pressed)
intently listening to love songs.

They are not laughing.
Why I want so much.
desire too much
so soon
( to prey on the next)
(I am hungry! I am hungry!)
Spit on the lemon rind
acrid tears, oozing
a gravy of pain
(I want to spit on the lemon rind again.)
forget about house calls
and sleep beyond twelve.