at the supermarket, I examined the produce.

my grocery list was short, like a café, ordered at quaint little joint off the shores of Normandy, by a man in a rush but in dire need of a small earthy salve.

the produce was lacking, the mangos were bruised.

the mangos were bruised, I say, like the flesh of the shins of a lady field hockey midfielder at the close of the first half of the regional field hockey playoffs of her given northeastern American county.

and the pineapples, oh dear, the pineapples.

I grabbed and bagged two Vidalia onions, whose dull glisten fought through the matte plastic like a mouse with its hind secured to a sticky trap

that’s stuck to a pair of tuxedo pants

which are caught between the space between the pipe of the radiator and the radiator and the wall.

I proceeded down the aisles,

up and down,

searching for the category under which I might find

herbs de provence.

I found the spices, and the spices were plentiful.

Plentiful, like hoop earrings at a New Jersey disco on the night before Thanksgiving,

as plentiful as the flies on a decaying chipmunk,

as plentiful as the pus beneath the skin of the boy in the before photo of a before and after series for an infomercial for an acne relief treatment,

as plentiful as the smiling nubile faces as the bus arrives at the YMCA Camp Jordan,

as plentiful as a list of deceased celebrities,

or a list of living ones.

I took my onions, and my herbs de provence, and a can of cannelloni beans,

and at the register, I checked myself out.

I checked myself out, not unlike a seasoned pole dancer, about to start my set, adjusting nylon and silk and double-sided adhesives and touching up my body makeup in front of the V shaped mirror of the changing room of Valerio’s shake joint, which is why the mirror is V-shaped, ever so poignantly.

then I went home, and heated these things in a pot, over a flame,

and when I was finished, I transferred it to a bowl, and took a spoon from the drawer, and brought the stew to my lips.

it steamed, and looked, and tasted

like complete, unadulterated poopoo.