Month: March 2018

by any other name II

recently I found out
your middle name, and
caught a glimpse
of the alternate universe
in which you are a Dave.

weird, isn’t it? is that guy
drawing comics
about being a superhero
whose power is going
mostly underappreciated?
is he taking the subway
every day to his white collar job
wishing he were freewheeling, wheeled and (barely) heeled, but able
to pursue his art? or does he
work in a library and have
endless borrowing privileges?

does that guy have friends
who make fun of him
but only because
they love him? or does he
have a wife and kids, a
suburban walking-dream life
and no discernable inner narrative
worth speaking of?

we’ll never know. unless
a movie adaptation of the
– totally true story, mostly
autobiographical –
best-selling comic written
by Dave becomes so huge
that it spills over into
our universe, and even then
I’ll probably wait for it to come out
on Netflix.

empty

you cook for yourself, and
eat what you make. you used
to finish it even if
you had to force yourself
past the point of fullness
or risk gifting the fridge
with yet another container
of instantly suspicious leftovers.

but yesterday when
the French Toast had been made,
and mostly eaten, and you
realized you had stopped
eating because
you were no longer hungry,
you didn’t eat the rest.
you got up and threw
the rest away, despite the
voices in your head saying
wasteful
children are starving in China
you spent good money
for those eggs, that bread,
those sausages.

you remember sitting
at the dining room table
as a child, for hours upon
hours, stubbornly refusing
to eat the food your mother
had slaved over a hot stove
to prepare. you don’t
remember if you actually
ended up eating it,
or if she gave in and sent you
to bed without any other supper
than what you had
already eaten.

you probably drank the milk.
(there was always milk.)

you wonder at the expression
about eyes being bigger than
the stomach. first of all,
how is that even possible.
your stomach is quite
sizable. secondly, after all
these years of cooking
and eating, wouldn’t you know
by now how much is enough,
and how much is far
too much? it’s as if
those years of being forced
to eat food that was not
what you wanted, being shamed
and mocked for the food
you wanted, taught you that
there’s never enough, that
only too much is correct.
just in case. better than
not enough.

it doesn’t stop you from
feeling empty.