I have a new love: wasabi almonds. They are so good, I could put horse meat in frozen lasagna and make people buy it.
I’m eating the piquant nuts all the time. Even at night, with the moon like a slim almond in the sky, you will see me, if you looked out across Penobscot Bay, popping wasabi almonds into my mouth like an addict shaking with imagination in the quiet of the night. The nut in the man. The man in the nut. Who can tell on a night like last night. I also have them for breakfast with my horsehair shirt on. I have them for lunch with my jodhpurs down. And I even stash a few under my pillow to keep my incisors sharp and my molars in practice for the sweet fruit of the mandarin.
Which I also love at this time of the year, the sudden tart shock against the back of the teeth and the stringy white bits caught in my long incisors or in the back among the sightless, wordless molars. All day I imagine I have the sun trapped between the ageless grove of my teeth, me biting down on another sunrise or sunset and yet nothing I can say alters a thing. At least not yet. I speak real words at night, alone, unsure, a little dazed and drunk before my computer, calling up phantoms, luring words cause I’m scurvy without them.
What’s that old crocodile, with a clock in his gut, say with a tear in his large eye? Oh, yes, there’s a sucker born every minute who needs a frozen dinner and only cries pot pie when he or she finds out it’s horse meat and not the dog’s dinner. So, you were lied to. Are you telling me nobody has ever, ever lied to you before? Schoolteachers never lied to you. A government never lied to you. The family priest never lied to you, of course, as he seduced the farmer’s daughter. And, god forbid, your personal God never lied to you when he said the innocent shall inherit the earth.
Lasagna! The easiest dish to make in the world. All you need is some pasta, tomatoes, a handful of herbs, and some plump goat to make it delicious.
What is this croaking all about? We eat cow, chicken, rabbit, and no one becomes a burning bush. We partake of the flesh of others, so what does it matter what flesh it is?
I don’t think I could eat a horse — well, ok, the rump or the fetlock of a horse. I’d much rather ride one. But, where were all these people when glue was being made? Sniffing oil lamps?
Droning on and on about drones. What’s not to like about a programed killer that doesn’t have to eat, pee, or think? Let’s save an entire army of young lads and send a drone for the price of a stamp. Plus, drones are so easy to knock off. Didn’t Chewie take one out on the cold planet Hoth with just one shot? I think it’s because drones have a self-destruct button, a bit like a nervous and anxious writer who can always give up the writing and become a celebrity writing instructor to the young and utterly glib.