Strange Entrées

I have eaten strange things since I was twelve: the memories of life—the serenity of sorrow—frog legs, kites upon winds as they carry my pride. I have eaten mourning—teal-hazel concerns—reality blends with unreality. (Shifts in brains, the eloquence of pain, soft crystals alarming systems.) Those strange things … oysters in misery sauce; just so swift it destroys; sunlight blues, those first few breaths, eating the strangeness of sounds.

I have eaten serenity, its melodic jazz, inconsistent lines, upon blues, into auras, jingling into cabinets—those words like confetti, drawers of expression, deeper ecstatic dungeons; as strange creatures, bronzed in trials, cooked partway, partly raw; to eat life, as rising specimens.

I become the stranger. I eat strange islands. I have eaten strange things. (By purpose to sing. By regret to forfeit.)

These strange items … stranger occurrences … to eat existence, to eat skies … much is time activity.