I listen to the intermixtured music of turn of the century descendents of African slaves and the indigenous peoples of South America with an intermixture of envy and ancestral discomfort as I tongue the remnants of cheese crackers saturated with the insidious trans-fatty-acid creating poison of partially hydrogenated vegetable oil. I take a breath. Envious in that these poisoned crackers with their processed starch are as I type working at the enamel on my teeth as like most food fed to us, once in the mouth, they are better suited for feeding bacteria than people. For four-year shelf lives we sacrifice freedom from immediate decay and bacteria culturation in the sacred place of our kisses. These primitive captive people with their brilliantly white teeth, toned muscular bodies and immunity to cancer and heart disease chant about the leaves, grass, and land that I shall never see in my ever illuminated fluorescent haven of carries, smoke, and chemicals. I damn my contemptible education, my elegantly mathematical heritage that provided me with these illustrious and descriptively beautiful words I use to describe my clean, antiseptic, angular and white hell. The CD player’s batteries just died, so now I get to listen to the fucking air conditioner that keeps me so warm, comfortable, and dry. Warm, comfortable, and dry.    

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