By Myself and Not Alone

I am sitting at a table eating

a microwaved chimichanga

with a short fork and blunt knife

the burrito tastes better than this poem

I am sitting here inside this poem

writing and eating and looking down

thru the glass into my knees and the contents

of the chimichanga are drifting thru me

a formerly frozen mash of dull brown stuff

stuffed into a fried tortilla then crammed

into many freezers until my own, which is me

and the poem I am inside the poem

and the chimichanga is inside me

and you are a person presumably

if you exist

and I will be eating you as well

as you eat me

there doesn’t have to be a reason

but I’d rather like it if there was

wouldn’t we all, that’s why we’re all eating one another

and what else can you do except

eat frozen food

and breathe chemicals

because we all know the chemicals are eating us


Halting Interruptions

The cold

The quiet cold

And the whispering rain

Melting snow and thoughts

Evaporating like everything else