Soufflé & Sticks

Tender spirit, living, father. Despite this quality, you cry out in the night. Face enshrined in breathing apparatus and life’s true intention: the struggle we pretend is a game to make it sweeter. Me? I'm forming a likeness out of remembered trees, leafless winter trees and a mood of zombies coming back through the cold like parking attendants to the gray morning, or waiters summoned to dance in dark uniforms. In this spirit, father, I struggle too. The labored sky, the half remembered ideal that pursues me through conversations on devastation, on recalling myself, memory, trees. For the waiter’s tip there’s nothing. No retrograded tenderness. No chivalrous denial of foreboding. The meal you ordered is coming. Quick. Undress.