As vices go, they appear not on the forbidden pyramid
Verily, I say unto you, I am an authority on vices
Personally
And professionally
Knowledge gleaned more as confessor than Confessor.
Less booth, more bourbon, a southern Bishop once said.
This is all “under the stole” right?

Coagulative Cogitation is what I think I am trying to say
But she’d want me to start with the Latin
Casseus
A formidable opponent but no match for Cassius or Ali or even Pacquiao, who sounds even less like a Filipino politician.
Why is that boxing metaphors come to mind when pondering such non-lyrical antecedents to a Last Supper?
That is how I read it.

An awkwardly intimate process coaxing cows to spill the milk for unintended purposes
Eventually, and this cannot be rushed
Aging and ripening
And sometimes cursing the blue streak that rarely speaks to a Virgo
Unless it is in the cheese.
Served by an Airedale type at the “Dog and Daughter” Pub
Who composes blues tunes in response to the maiden with the
Fierce but tender eyes.
But enough about Italian tragedy.
Back to Gruyere
Delicious on any continent.

And openings.
Holes for the more literal.
Holy for some, although one cannot really stand upon such ground, only hover over it.
I believe Swiss is right up there with Americana
What does it tell us when we seek the bite that is not there?
How is it possible that emptiness enhances?
I cannot turn to Physics proofs and culinary acumen.
And metaphors cannot be ingested
Only sampled.
Not vacuous, I know.
Spacious, possibly.
Dignified and aloof, getting closer but still the tail that wags the dog.
Distance? But not calibrated as such.
Emptiness?
Longing?

I have probably read too many books.
But not tasted nearly enough cheese.

So I will savor the space
Holy and sacramental.






William Miller
Copyright 2012
First published on the Saint Julian Press, Guest Author pages in January 2012.