Bitter so my whole mouth balks at the taste. Squeezes up sour lemons and expels reactive saliva. In crescents, mounting on Montauk, moon dips low and hangs and swings. Nighttime hammock cresting and making ocean waves lap up that coastal sand for supper. The biggest dog tongue to every exist. What if God was a dog, though? I’d be psyched. Bitter melon rind, some unique Chopped challenge. Some countermeasure IPA to balance out the savory sweet. Bitter as in an emotion people are often left with when experiencing emotional upset. Like all the good and positive is drained out of them and they exist as this angry, remorseful, vacuumed-packed space lemon, dried out and dehydrated, molding and dying. Lime with tequila. Temporary grievance. Slides to buckles to shoes to dioramas. Doorways, portkeys, keyholes. Ichabod Crane strokes his beard and twists it around his finger. Such a strange idiosyncrasy. Did people actually do this? Do people still do it? Tongue shrinks. I want the spice now. I want the flavor to change. Life is just this weird game of Red Light, Green Light and when we should heed yellow we just speed up because if don’t we’re considered weak.