Meat
I have a new home and so I cook dinner. Chicken is cheap from Foster Farms and so I buy it and then stand before the sink, holding a chicken's neck, looking at brown chicken organs and trying to decide, is there more poison in these than in that pathetic yellow fat pink meat carcass. I paid money for this chicken and so have ensured that more chickens will die. They would die either way, in long windowless buildings in Oregon or Washington (for so the supermarket display said). And I will get the sun's energy in a different form than potatoes and endless pancakes.
My carrots are from Alaska, at least. My home is pleasant and every day more beautiful/welcoming. Here is where the truth will bubble like stock. The chicken neck still in the sink, awaiting the next steps--crock pot, eventual trash after all life is boiled out.
Chicken skin is unhealthy, J says, J who also knows how everything draws poison from its roots. Tolstoy was a vegetarian, also the inspiration for a religious cult but his teachings were not aligned sufficiently with Stalinism and so obscurity was his fate. Tolstoy whose unmarked grave I walked near in 2006, when I understood nothing. I want to tell the truth and explain but have done so before, with words that had too many holes. I remember the baking dish that shattered in Daniel Dilliplane's kitchen and how I would have ate the vegetables except for one piece of sweet potato that had a shard straight through it. I remember the truth that hurt and fell away.
In truth I have a pleasant positive life except for those moments when I stop to recognize my participation in an evil inhumane system. This participation slightly more active since moving to Fairbanks, I hope I am offset by the good things I do.
My carrots are from Alaska, at least. My home is pleasant and every day more beautiful/welcoming. Here is where the truth will bubble like stock. The chicken neck still in the sink, awaiting the next steps--crock pot, eventual trash after all life is boiled out.
Chicken skin is unhealthy, J says, J who also knows how everything draws poison from its roots. Tolstoy was a vegetarian, also the inspiration for a religious cult but his teachings were not aligned sufficiently with Stalinism and so obscurity was his fate. Tolstoy whose unmarked grave I walked near in 2006, when I understood nothing. I want to tell the truth and explain but have done so before, with words that had too many holes. I remember the baking dish that shattered in Daniel Dilliplane's kitchen and how I would have ate the vegetables except for one piece of sweet potato that had a shard straight through it. I remember the truth that hurt and fell away.
In truth I have a pleasant positive life except for those moments when I stop to recognize my participation in an evil inhumane system. This participation slightly more active since moving to Fairbanks, I hope I am offset by the good things I do.