The coordination of economic policy honed to a simple ordinance prohibiting smoking within our apartment coerced me minutes ago onto the baking balcony where I considered the vast orgy of absorption, release and re-absorption, that smorgasborg of unending appetite engendered by photosynthesis, which we genuflecting hole-mushers have as the piquant sum of our earthly delight. On a baldly energetic level, to live is to consume and return; and it tickles us. We eat and rut and die and are regurgitated after bacteria and fungi redistribute our molecules into the soil for solar-eaters to feed and thence become feed. Obliterating a few dozen abstract categorizations leaves us with the winking reality that cannibalism proves the irreducible material principle of existence against which linguistic niceties have no gainsay if truth be told, burped, highlighted in the sky by the northern lights or L.A smog, etc. The fork that lifts a glob of carcass to our mouths and the one stacking sacks of carcass onto trucks for distribution are with a little imagination the same; let that imagination extend to a principle: differentiation can only be in form, never essence. Form becomes the physical articulation of essence. When kissing my lover's nape, rapt with the soft heat, this transference of ardor, the desire to bite sometimes overwhelms me, sensibly so; I wish to consume her, assimilate her molecules. A supercilious creature whose impatience would meld art and essence, in the roundabout cells burrowing and surfacing her, I would have everything in one tripping glut. But devouring the form disperses the essence elsewhere and then all forms, failing to be speak her, would grow grey and one-dimensional. I would preserve her form above all others for the love of a satisfied sigh protracted in perfect, punctuated beats until I'm, quite against my will, made anew.
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