Yesterday my neighbor said
if I add safflower oil to my salad instead of olive oil,
I’d lose more weight,
or to put it more politely,
I’d digest better.
She also added I should be sprinkling
a little cayenne on it,
since it’s not as hot when you sprinkle it on cold things,
and cayenne fixes everything in the body.
But how can she be right about this?
I mean, how can anybody know what they’re talking about, I mantra
out of my lint encrusted cat’s asshole of a navel
located somewhere inside the ear
that’s flaking off the middle of my eye’s penis.
But I know what she really meant was it’d fix me,
and I can’t help but think I’m her pet project.
The wounded young man going through his first divorce
needs a divorce salad
in order to get things moving in the right direction again.
You better get going on up to your little cave
and start writing about this
before you turn into someone else’s salad, my eyeball yawns,
before you bare no resemblance to those previous salads,
which are usually saturated with the things you love:
the almighty olive since the olive oil already on it isn’t olivey enough,
anything to make a laugh out of the fact
that I’m always just really quite desperate to learn
how I appear to my true me,
once I’ve blown my wad, back-talking brat’s strategy
for how to sound smart
back at myself.
I’m supposed to go on and on and on like a motor-mouth
until some truth that’s really worth it goes sauntering,
balls off the page,
wherever that is,
because there is always one more truth to add
to a grocery list of truths, I sputter.
It’s because of this that there is no such thing as The truth,
so count away, I say,
remain in your cave counting the drips
falling from the tips of your stalactite fingers, I tell myself,
however long it takes.