The Taste of Yuk, an Incomplete Oral History

Disappointment at first bite.

Tastes like acid.

Tastes like bile.

Bile with a hint of orange mold tickling at its periphery.

That first bite of every letdown rips another metaphorical flake of toxicity from the situation for you to consume. It lingers on the tongue like a smart ass with a comment, waiting for a lull. The licking of a lip does not wipe disappointment away. It gets in and massages the nerves of old cavities with agitated, metallic vigor.

Wincing, your eye squints at the wild temperature of it as you attempt to tumble it down your esophagus. Swallow. There goes the inch worm of a dying relationship. Gulp. The drip of a flame trail catching the curtains of your brain as a reminder of that job lost, or that time you chose coward when heroic was right there.

Right.

There.

Tongue to a 9 Volt battery.

If only you didn’t bite.

*

Betrayal is a lemon.

A failure.

A fraud.

So sour.

Acerbic and vile, the shiver of it pierces the consciousness like a burr, like a thorn. It is a barbed blanket of a meal. With sharpness unexpected, the mouth and lips pucker and protest. The cheek of it!

Whoosh

Spitting pips into the sink of forgetfulness, betrayal annoys with its persistence of memory. The pledge of its commitment is read daily at the briefing.

This remembrance will last a lifetime.

Incisors sharp and calculus hard, you pursue your innocence with bold intent, biting gently at life, again and again.

To taste at the sour. To suck it and see.

Bite.

It sticks in the throat, processed roughly by the turnstiles of your tongue like citizens in a line at the DMV. ID here, documentation there. Sit down. Stand up. Receipts accumulate and are never shredded, only filed away for next time.

Through the tasting of, a citrus-inspired rind forms around your heart. It is glazed. It is thick. It is zesty in its pungency. This is a taste that regurgitates and dons robes and wigs and retries its injustice in the court of rewind and replay.

The wonky tombstones of its grief crowd your mouth with dark persistence and in its disorganized misalignment, the diagnosis—if left untreated—is obvious.

Gum disease.

Tooth rot.

Betrayal has but one tasting note. It reads: “Bad bite. Brace yourself.”

*

Hate is black blood pooling in the cavern of your underbite.

It tastes rotten.

Rancid.

Foul.

To bite hate is to tear and rip and violently masticate with dumb fury. Hate cracks teeth and rots jaws and once swallowed will plant its cancer in your body like a flag.

Ugly and cruel, hate pummels papillae in bare knuckled fury with the taste of its base ingredients—nails and knives and spit and lies and malodorous barnyard dirts.

The gas of hate tastes of the oil of dinosaurs. Thick with grime and pollution it fuels the fog of war.

Starved for love, starved for knowledge, starved for humanity and understanding, a starving soul develops a taste for hate.

Do not dine on the hate of humans.

Bite, but do not swallow. Chew on it to familiarize yourself with the flavor, then make an owl-like pellet from the bones and fur of that hate and spit it out.

Out!

*

Disgust is burnt toast. Loneliness is ash. Guilt is wet cardboard. Regret is dirty turpentine. Shame, helplessness, anxiety, jealousy, anger, fear—these are all the negative tastes.

It is the taste of yuk. It is a scattergun—or scat-ergun—diarrhea diagnosis that will fertilize your growth soil your whole life long. As long as you keep working it. As long as you keep biting. To survive, you must develop the iron tooth of the Kimodo Dragon1 and bite without hesitation.

Pull up a chair.

Taste the pain-bow.

Life. Grab a fork.

Dig in.

This week’s amends…

"If a poet has a dream, it is not of becoming famous, but of being believed."

– Jean Cocteau

Via Nitch

On Rotation: “Going Down” by Freddie King

A reminder that all songs featured in this newsletter over the years are added to the giant mega super playlist of magnificents and magnificence which you can access with an effortless depress of this button. 👇

I typed a dog.

Via 10+1 Things

This is so artful, it should be in the Eye section. It’s art! Well, it’s a craft for sure. But art to watch.

Via Kottke

Shameless Podcast Plug

Listen to audio versions of early issues of The Stream on my podcast, Field of Streams, available on 👉 all major podcasting platforms 👈

Here’s Apple