Butter

Used to be we thought it was good for burns. Now we know to run cold water on the burn, or just go stand in a cold shower (for a large one).

Used to be we thought it was good for us to eat, made us strong and healthy. We colored margarine just so it would look more like butter. Now we know it (when taken with lots more of the average U.S. diet, which is killing us all by the way) puts a lot of strain on the heart.

Poor butter! It still tastes good on biscuits.

a man (friend) is sitting on top of a high cliff. Lookig down from it he might see its chalkish face. He is conversing with a woman (friend) who is hovering in the air tryin to talk with him.
He begins to talk  – i don’t catch, or at least can’ remember what he actually says nut after his initial phrase he jumps. He plunges for ages and ages before hitting the bluish waters below. At first my worry is that the depth will be too little too absorb his fall. Then he surfaces and continues with his next phrase. A vivid break in what is linguistically a continuous sentence.

A bird is lying o its back on the sill of a house, indoors. The name that i’d attach to it would be thrush, but it’s almost certainly not ornithologically accurate, unless of course I’ve simply not seen this size or kind of thrush before. Anyway, it’s on its back and its ribs are exposed and painted in gold and sundust yellow and jade green and black. It must be a dead or ornamental bird. It could be metal and yet its talons are smokning. They are smoking and might have been on fire but now burnt down. I wince from the torture. Perhaps though it is a scenting bird and these smoking talons act for incense sticks. At any rate the lurid eye, sad eye on its face opens and blinks. Only at that moment do I realise and acknowledge with horror that this bird is alive and in terrifying pain.

The borders between different kinds of dairy products become blurrier every time I enter a supermarket. Now they´ve started selling butter mixed with yogurt. What´s next? Camembert with 45% sourcream? Low-fat clotted cream? cream cheese with frozen yogurt?

Frank Leigh Dearie dreams of viscid empty
spaces, dank rooms, and pastry brushes
poised to paint the windshield of the real
with melted butter.