Language is easy—Grandmother taught me: how to shred and tumble others incessantly. You could do almost anything, including agitating them to death with just the pushing, the ability for ceaselessness and bullying. Figuring out who is hurting already and punishing them, taping a motor to the paper boat. Biting cold citrons in the damp shade of boulders, stones. From the fruit bowl, the arithmetic of a two-party system; where in the equation do we take our foot to the shovel’s shoulder for principles, conscience? Love appeals to our irrational mystic, is distinct from attachment or respect. The licorice fragrance of the park made me stuff my mouth with it, though it was dusk against the hillside and the grasses were cooling. I filled my mouth to the back teeth, tasting especially with the sore blisters at the sides of my tongue. These unpleasant feelings— someone’s resentment, someone’s mean recollection of injustice—we would rather they belong to someone who does not yet exist.
