This morning I made one with

a quarter cup of olive oil,

two sweet potatoes julienned,

a quart of sliced mushrooms,

one thinly sliced onion,

a handful of parsley,

and two cups of baby spinach.

And last night I drew a picture

with a professional assortment

of crayons, my moleskin journal

everybody knows smart people

like me use,

a handful of emotions

that must have been sent

from the clouds,

and a sprig of chaos reserved

only for MFA poets that are too

good for Academia.

Tonight, I think I’ll probably draw

another one using

more of the sacred crayons,

another page from my journal,

some different more mysterious

emotions, we’ll see what I’m

being summoned to,

but instead of chaos

I think I’ll add some lust,

pre-mushed and salted

with some activated charcoal

volcanic salt from Iceland

my friend gave me.

I hope I’m not being

too long-winded and redundant

when I say right now, I’d like

to spend a little time announcing that

its probable most of what

I care about each day could be

compared to not only making

what’s up there

in the all-important title,

but like preparing a concoction

a shaman might prepare

before asking you to drink up

and let go and trust

whatever happens to you,

to just go with it,

and know all will be well,

even if, like the soon to be

expert on shapeshifting, you

have to let your ego be pulled away

from your body and watch it be

eaten by your idols,

in order to graduate.