Avocado and a lot of lemon juice in a chipotle chile broth from a kitchen I know hasn’t passed an inspection since its Texas Monthly feature of 1983. If I had walked here alone, I would ask someone for a ride says the tight-yellow shirt thing of mid-40s to his friends, slow and loudly as if I am hearing impaired; objectification is reaffirming from time to time, it is measured in the worth of the one objectifying. A bright red cabriolet poorly shielding two kids from voyeurism; a look of momentary fear. Fuck, its just some stupid white guy! I read a dissertation by a surgeon who was trying to make a point from the vowels in exclamations of pain and suffering; that the dialects littered with consonants lack an expression of being alive; I believe it. Its crazy, she says with a heavy French accent, to have only one word to mean love. And I think: Speak. I do not understand you. Speak; it is only we learn the ways of another’s words that we can truly say. And I wonder: Did I take your vowels with violence? Or, was it my assault of Bs, Ds, Ts, and Ses.