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



There is a man who smells awful, and his name is Daryll. I know how to spell his name because he taught me one day. I tried to teach him how to spell my name, but he never remembers. He wanders around the suburbs lugging trash bags. He likes to carry as many as possible. Families try to stay away for fear of his rottenness He can be smelled from many feet away. He told me how he loves to eat. He keeps old food in his bags. I asked him what his favorite kind of food was, and he told me it was cookies. I asked him what kind of cookie and he said chocolate chip. Then he smiled. I told him how I like to dip my chocolate chip cookies in cold milk until they get soggy and melt in my mouth when I bite into them. I asked him if he likes to dip his cookies in milk and this is how he answered:

I dip my chocolate chip cookies in root beer.

I smiled back at him for once. Then I asked if the combination tastes good together. His lips opened up with his gums showing as he hummed: