These my offerings,
tiny and fragile, they must take root
in stubborn soil. Fertilize them.
Give them shape. Twisted they may grow,
but their trunks must be strong.
They must reach through the night.
They must be of their ground...
Some of these poe...
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By doctor's orders, as of 10 May 1994, I am to go onto a homeopathic diet of no carbohydrates and no saturated fats and no hybrids - so I suppose it is time to put up my trailing rags, to dress sensibly and read Jane Austen. I can see the sense of it. This romantic starving poet diet is killing me.
I can give up the macaroni and cheese (if I never look at another box again I couldn't be happier), the oodles of Romulan noodles, the Byron, the Goethe - the sorrows of young Sarah - but no sugars? What about the sweet Napoleons, the eclairs, puffs of pastry Ionesco melting in my mouth? No more sweetly-dripping baklava or Sapphic honey cloying to end my repasts? No Ossian? Not even a bit of Bernard da Ventadorn, when the days are long in May? ah God, ah God, the dawn how soon it comes!
My mouth waters for lasagna, cannenolli, and for the sweet liebestod endness of concupiscent curds (no ice cream, I can't have that anymore, dairy is death) for scallops and Swinburne and shrimp in a milky white sauce, for the divine Marquis I can never afford
oh please, at least let me keep my dogeared Story of O tooth-rotting Turkish delight!
