Ode to the Man I Saw Swallow a Cigarette on Middle Path

Image result for diagram of the throat

where the cigarette went, probably

Tyler Raso

Professor Severus Snape

Magic, Mayhem, and Making Amends (but Not, Like, Urgently)

22 February 2019

Title

In this paper I will argue that I saw a man (stature of a fully grown corn stalk, backwards baseball cap, not really in a rush, alone) swallow an entire (100% of a) cigarette (lit). The day was Thursday (February 7th), and the time, lunch. I was walking southward on Middle Path, and the subject north. Point of contact: Ransom Hall. The weather was frog degrees and sticky tack was precipitating (lightly) from the sky. This was normal because it was an Ohio winter. I don’t have a thesis because this piece is more, like, exploratory. “Can the human experience truly be captured in language, the construction site of the psyche” (CITE). Someone at the Writing Center told me this paper was “full of, uhm, ideas” and then offered me a complementary candy (but they were out of dark chocolate Hershey Kisses). Because the straw prose of analytical writing couldn’t contain all my feelings, observations, ideologies, methodologies, insecurities, fondness for sea otters, suspicions, jazz music, sobriety, or overdue library books, I’ve decided to continue my paper in poetic form instead.

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Vaguely Kenyon-themed Poetry Inspired by rupi kaur

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Me, performing a poem

Dear reader. I think so much. It gets uncomfortable in my head with all those thoughts taking up so much space. I put my thoughts in poems so my brain doesn’t get squished by the weight of childhood memories consisting of me holding a stick in various locations and reruns of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Poems are like little glass jars filled with pickled organs. And the organs are so pickled, they’re almost translucent. As Bryce Shivers and Lisa Eversman of Portlandia fame once said, We can pickle that.” That’s just beautiful. I made a custom embroidered pillow on the internet which says “We can pickle that.” I didn’t buy it though. One day, the whole world will be pickled. You can just dump stuff in a poem and then forget all about it. And then get famous while people theorize about your sexuality.

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