I ate roaches for breakfast. Chocolate covered.
He studies my eyes, hoping for a reaction, or a bit of squeamishness.
I say yum yum and lick my lips.
They were not quite cooked, he informs me.
They kept running away from the plate.
The two with their legs out.
I smile and nod encouragingly.
Sounds great! I say.
I washed them down with ketchup milk, he says.
YUMMY! I yelp emphatically.
His story is coming a bit more slowly now.
I ate stuffed spiders for dessert. They were tasty!
They sound delicious, I allow.
But how did you get their mouths open to stuff them?
I did not stuff them THERE, he says, hoping my eyes will widen.
I cannot stop laughing and neither can he.
letting the roach live
compassion
or squeamishness
What sibilant consonants
conjure his image: angular, Germanic,
uttering phrases and grunts, monosyllables
forcefully spat into air alive,
filled with his vivid verbal assaults!
No saccharine sentiment for him.
He lets fly with steamy staccato
streams of purposely purple prose,
unblemished by boorishly banal
concern for social civilities.
Squeamishness never slept next to him!
But notice (not noticeably, please)
how his eyes seem furtively to flit
from yours, to gaze down at his hands,
pale and strangely delicate -- graceful!
And his cheeks are dusted with a blush,
under eyes not steely blue but liquid brown.
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