greens of hector
Gated communities, or so I've been told, suck. The city-state of Troy was a gated community. Virtual gated communities being no better than their flesh and blood counterparts. This blog world is really no different than any other gate, since without access to a computer I have no way of getting in. Two days ago I decided to upgrade my laptop. The new program not only wiped my hard drive clean (so long, Frank Lloyd Wright) but also failed to recognize the Internet as something I might need to use. I am now reduced to sneaking onto friend's laptops, pilfering from the public library, hoping for something better to come down the line.
A friend writes to me about a misunderstanding with her boyfriend. I only find out about it much later, after it has been resolved. For some reason I think of Achilles from Greek myth, desecrating the body of the Trojan hero Hector in the Iliad. It bothers me what happened to that body, even though it is all myth. I wash vegetables and think about the body of Hector. Collards have a certain limp green color to them. I have always been nervous about the reds in kale. They do not look natural, like they were soaked in something or someone splattered a abattoir bucket on them.
no one is a stray
in this state, no
not winter-blooming
greens in
the sink. not the taproot
that tastes
like cocoa. not the cherry
stone cut from
your gullet.red kale looks
nothing like the rage
of Achilles, still
there is sea salt on
my fingers, a kiss
that will get you
with child, man.
a sodden wig in
the sink, knife
in hand, Hector's
head pulled back,
slicing around
the hairline, freeing
flesh from bone, a
fleck of scalp
in one hand,screeching at
the spectators
on the wall.