integrity of the sweet potato
My therapist asked me:
"WhAt Is It YoU tHiNk Of
WhEn YoU sTaRe At ThE wAlL fOr HoUrS oN eNd?"
I told her:
"Carefully I am planning my life
to imitate the integrity
of a sweet potato
cooked with chronological care:
not as a thanksgiving yam --
overdone, soft squish
beaten, whipped,
and marshmallowed,
sickly nutrasweetened
to a hybrid cross
of butterfinger bar
and cotton candy,
no.
Not as strained orange Gerber glop
on a baby's bib or cheek,
no.
But gently levered from the solid ground,
washed until this earth no longer clings to it,
cubed by cleaver,
boiled just long enough
to a proper tuberous density
that crunches between molars
properly resisting the fibers
just an al dente moment.
Natural wholesomeness
unadorned by societal
processing."
"AHa," said my therapist,
as she wrote in her notebook:
"AnOtHeR cAsE oF sAcChArInIcAl BeTa-CaRoTeEnY tUbErMaShApHoBiA,
cOmPoUnDeD bY eXcEsSiVe ReGuLaRiTy..."
- Dick Hacken