By Flem Jones
Artwork “Life in the Garden” by Susan Peters
It is true that I have taken
a shot of baked beans
while my friend chugs straight V8.
At least I think they are my friend.
I hope that beans have made me friends.
It is true that life signifies nothing –
is nasty and bleak and over too soon –
has a jagged, bleeding hole in the center –
but has baked beans in it.
I am full of beans
and pointless sadness.
It is not productive. I know that. People have told me.
You know what they say:
some days you’re the volcano,
some days you’re the sacrifice.
Maybe sometimes you’re the divine being
but that’s never happened to me
and I’d take volcano, I’m just sick of being the sacrifice.
I may have a bad relationship to fireball.
I may be misreading the morning news.
I may be overstating my case.
Love is the band-aid we put on the bloody wound in the world.
The band-aid has other names
like whiskey and denial and churro beans.
I’m fresh out of band-aids. The blood is seeping through.
Churro beans are good with Cajun seasoning.
That is all I have to say.