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By the Pound


Sometimes, I feel like I’m dragging around a bipedal bag of meat for no reason.

Everywhere I look, there is conflict. Either it’s a comic taking easy shots at the coming tyrants, (oh, they’re coming), or it’s an angry white male with a microphone, restoring order with a padlock and keys and a combination.

Or it’s a movie about a man’s friendship with an astonishing, sentient octopus, opening our hearts with tenderness and nuance… juxtaposed in my screen life with an ad for raw baby octopus for sale by the pound.

Governor Hochul has identified Creedmore Psychiatric Center as a destination for the frightening overflow of illegal migrants. Protests all over the neighborhood. But where will they go? Who will welcome them? They are routinely cut up by the media, and sold by the pound.

I have to find something in my own bones, something in this bag of meat standing at the fridge recoiling at how full it is,

I have to find something that’s worthy of the lungs I was given, the lungs that breathe me in and out.

Something that animates my own muscles in the direction of kindness. A gesture of I’m-not-going-to-hurt-you. An expression on my face that will make at least one person smile.

Every day.

Because if I don’t, then every day, my soul will be up for sale by the pound. And at the end of the day the leftovers will be thrown to the scrounging, feral cats in the back.



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