A Brief History of Meat

A Brief History of Meat

by

Glen Armstrong

 

There is no name for the piece that the butcher prefers. It survives as something closer to need, the entire business of eating another animal swooping out of the human chest like a great, featherless bird. No layers. Nothing joined. Teeth no different from any other elemental tool. It seems to belong within this row of little shacks that has housed us since the war. It has been skillfully cubed to fit, but can never be completely removed from the bone.

 

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Follow Up

Follow Up

by

Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia

And so, ‘been done’ took the drink from the bar which made a follow up to what hadn’t yet occurred rather difficult. One hand on the glass, one on the wood, those words were there, printed to be seen for any observing – of which many were who would want to approach to get something going.

Coming close to closings, endings are more than apparent. Ended. But, the question of continuation continues. What brought on the end also goes on. Been Done’s been done being addicted to discussion. Nothing else to say. All’s been lost in what one once was hooked on.

In the flesh, there’s nothing else to pick up on but words run across a forearm lifting for another sip as the other arm lets go of old habits.

On the tongue of another is the same or close enough drink and hopes for openings although nothing’s been left to say. Silence isn’t a starter. Palate’s been cleansed by voice to end up here. Quiet washing the air of sounds wasted in wants.

Been Done’s been about halfway through the drink. From the corner of the eye, the bicep holds ‘done’ on skin where ‘been’ has been hidden in sleeve as one hand holds forehead and the other – nothing momentarily for a thought. A breath. Another conclusion to an opening not taken from the eye only using its corner.

Reserves have been excused from use. Hope’s been drained by reasonings brought from not begun to already done. Pretending’s machinations have rusted digging trenches no words can ever return from.

Wondering where silence wanders to when words come, Been Done goes for another sip. E is coming up out of the collar. How empty the future feels from being away, looking. How entitled everyone else feels drinking disenfranchised worries alone, watching.

Been Done’s about done. What comfort the neck, the shoulders would be if only those were not also concluded. Closed to talk.

In the emptiness of finishing first, opportunity begs release. Been Done is on the lips of the last taste as eyes think to meet in waiting. Hesitation. Ended. Silent, Opened to thoughts. Follow ups. What conclusions have come. What endings occurred. What began has been done before starting.