Flesh eating slug repellent. Harry Potter VI movie marathon and all that is good in the world. Warm and fuzzy. Slimey the worm. Sesame Street, Oscar the Grouch, RIP Carol Spinney. My grandma would have been sad to hear about it. She died 15 years ago. She no longer has flesh. She was cremated. Dust sits in a metallic sacred jar, blessed by a priest, approved by God, in the cemetery. In the mausoleum. In a small stone-slabbed space with her name and dates. And that’s who she is now. To me she is flood of memories. I regret not having grown older with her. 14 is way too young to lose your grandmother. So many things half-realized, then later suppressed. She would have been a great person to talk to as an adult, after I had lived some life, which I have.
A pound of flesh. Shylock. Merchant of Venice. No blood. Just the pound. Good thing Shakespeare wasn’t a science-fiction writer. That tan, beige, grey slop. The biggest living organ on your body is your skin. Lives and breathes and heals. It is nature, but can also be pornographic. It can be sexual. And these two things don’t necessarily have to be related. Flesh on flesh, we are one true being. Two souls trying to kiss. Two psyches trying to see inside the other. But not with eyes.