Mouth Of Stone
Even though nothing is edible, at this cafe I am never hungry.
The lemonade is even made with piss and yet still I am slaking glass after glass, even so far as asking for another when the waitress comes around with a fresh pitcher.
While she is at the table, I end up ordering twelve ounces of sterling, a brick of platinum flew in from Tibet (wild caught just this morning), a half a pounds worth of hallmark stamped agate, and a dry aged smoky quartz as a digestif (I even considered christening the vintage crystal that I have been eyeing on the menu, but for spiritual reasons I am abstaining).
Andy Goldsworthy: Wall Drawing (2014)
When my many minerals are unveiled to me, they are coursed out as such where one can really appreciate the particular individual qualities of each. It is the only time I like my hands to be dirty. I feel like I am in a wonderland. Not even the Black Sea or the beaches of San Juan can hold a candle. Though my first experience draping my old professors ball python around my neck comes close (I remember her informing me that it ran away the following week).
I polish off everything and leave in a hurry. I even did my own dishes. I have a train to catch. I am going to Connecticut to meet a man named Bryan. He is a cinematographer that can be quite a prick to his actors from what I hear. I remember he once called a passerby a cocksucker for dressing up as the Grinch one year during Christmas.
I cozy up inside the train with a flask of mercury in stow. My jacket is caught in between the seats but it doesn’t bother me. Quietly, I keep my qualms close. But my pen, closer.
I tire . . . I turn to rust . . .
Petal, I’m putting pedal to the metal, tungsten, copper, or whatever. Amethyst especially. The last thing I am is iron deficient.