Somehow there exists people out there who don’t know what a canker sore is. They often do this funny phenomena, after the face making and all, of looking relieved and going, “Oh…like when you bite the inside of your lip and it stays that way a while?” Chuckle.
No. It is not just simply a lip-bitten incident. Otherwise this could range from any form of embarrassing tragedy between kinky naughty lover boys and girls out there. This is the stuff that scientists should really get their smarticles-brains on to use as torture devices on deserving individuals – like food-lovers (like me)- who broke the golden code of not chewing with your mouth close (not me). Then now that you are inflicted with this terrible hindrance, eating that way has never proved more of a challenge. There’s a learned lesson!
Let me be clear for those that actually don’t know though. A canker sore is a ulcer that appears on the inside of the mouth for whatever reason that may be. In other words it’s basically like a hole in your mouth. It’s the stuff that you hear happening on the inside of your stomach or small intestine. I don’t know how painful that is, but coming from a family lineage of canker sores on the inside of your lip and tongue I can tell you fairly certainly that this hurts just as much.
After a brief research on the damned curse that is le canker sore, it has basically no known origin except for a few assumptions on the tough abrasive wires of braces – which I never had – and acidic juices – so that means no more of that necessary fruits intake a day? – God, 21st century science is great. To broaden out the search term, the Duck also scanned a page about ulcers. Let’s see, alcohol? No. Overdose of over-counter drugs. Maybe. (No, I’m lying.) Stressed out? Isn’t that what rage is for. Being old? Are you shitting me?
The mother Duck herself has often proclaimed throughout the Duck’s life time that canker sores originated from lack of sleep, stress, chocolate, and excessive fried or junk food. The Duck herself feels like the last three were just personalized discriminations against her kind. Unjust at its greatest. Why does not all the darned engineers and mathematicians out there get this wicked wicked old thing? Life’s questions indeed.
For the past few days then, the Duck has been rendered to stealthily insert food into her mouth, lest she alerts the wrath of the deathly sore to somehow just inflate and come in contact with whatever food that may or may not have salt content in them – that’s euphemism for practically every food out there. Okay, good healthy vegetarians out there, good yummy food. I’m not sorry. Food is like all the titan’s nectar. I need it. Now, once she does have the food past the threshold of her flat beak, the Duck has to knock her head to the side once or twice in a much too avian sense to gain the laughter of her wonderful, wonderful friends… Call it practical aid or just moral support for the tongue, it is hard work to maneuver without touching the entire half of the front bottom side of your mouth.
So for awhile there will be much dry-lipped-cringing-smiles from me. Aside from that, since I have not posted a poem in a while, and the fact that my alter-ego Duck pride is starting to get unfamiliar with the tyranny that she held over her belligerent assured-ness in believing she is quite familiar with the language of English, here goes nothing.
My father used to have a room of books
Large editions, medium, small, and
The size of a child’s palm.
He took a magnifying glass to it
While I squinted and proclaimed that I
Had perfect vision.
From perhaps 100 history books
He chose to tell me 2 that I remember.
The funny chances of irony
Between snarky wit and ballsy gambles
In times of war,
The room was sacred
One that I would not pass by without a glance
Towards the figure that may or may not be hunched over,
Frowning concentration of something grown up and knowing;
The quiet glide of a page
Friction against the other, atop the tiny tiny scars that says it was made from life, such
Indescribable sound of a leafing tree bark,
The sound is ancient.
Otherwise it is a space for old old books
Or just new ones pretending to be old
Behind their glass panels.
My father used to have an antique pistol
Smooth rich bark
Curved and embroidered with cold metal
Of fancy indentations,
It took honor on a tall shelf
In light of some general, unfortunate fellow,
Or just a rich folk; used it
Or were killed.
Raise the holster and take aim!
Pull back the leverage and…
Fell, a crack,
From my child’s hands.
Quaint old things
To be recollected again.